Inexorable
By William Henry Drummond
My thoughts hold mortal strife;
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries
Peace to my soul to bring
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise:
But he, grim-grinning King,
Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
Late having deckd with beautys rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.