A few figs from thistles; poems and sonnets/To S. M.
TO S. M.
IF HE SHOULD LIE A-DYING
I am not willing you should go
Into the earth, where Helen went;
She is awake by now, I know.
Where Cleopatra's anklets rust
You will not lie with my consent;
And Sappho is a roving dust;
Cressid could love again; Dido,
Rotted in state, is restless still;
You leave me much against my will.