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468 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 3
Yes, she was beautiful and well turned out,
The girl that I'd so often dream about,
Yet I lay with her limp as if I loved not,
A shameful burden on the bed that moved not.
Thought both of us were sure of our intent,
Yet could I not cast anchor where I meant.
She round my neck her ivory arms did throw,
Her arms far whiter than Scythian snow,
And eagerly she kissed me with her tongue,
And under mine her wanton thigh she flung.
Yes, and she soothed me up, and called me sire,
And used all speech that might provoke and stir.
Yet like as if cold hemlock I had drunk,
It humbled me, hung down the head, and sunk.
"Not food but gold we dig for;But then a few verses later he reminds you of what the poem is about, which is a poet who is upset that women won't fuck him because poets don't pay the bills. This is a pattern, he commits far greater political blasphemies in other poems of which he is perfectly content with undermining by making them ridiculous and ironic.
For money soldiers shed their blood and fight.
The Senate's shut to poor men; wealth gives honors,
Wealth makes a solemn judge, a haughty knight."