Of The Birth And Bringing-Up Of Desire

"WHEN wert thou born, Desire?" In pomp and prime of May.

"By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot?" By good conceit, men say.

"Tell me, who was thy nurse?" Fresh youth in sug'red joy.

"What was thy meat and daily food?" Sore sighs with great annoy.

"What had you then to drink?" Unfeigned lovers' tears.

"What cradle were you rocked in?" In hope, devoid of fears.

"What brought you then asleep?" Sweet speech that liked men best.

"And where is now your dwelling-place?" In gentle hearts I rest.

"Doth company displease?" It doth in many one.

"Where would Desire then choose to be?" He likes to muse alone.

"What feedeth most your sight?" To gaze on favour still.

"Who find you most to be your foe?" Disdain of my good will.

"Will ever age or death bring you into decay?"

No, no, Desire both lives and dies ten thousand times a day.

Poem by Edward de Vere, 

Earl of Oxford