English poem
SONNET. (Must I, Clorinda, ever court)
by David Garrick (1717–1779)
Must I, Clorinda, ever court? Why all these pains your flame to smother? Or is it that I'm made your sport To recommend you to another?
Whate'er the cause, of this be sure, Love's keenest shaft has touch'd my heart; Nor will the wound admit of cure, Until we're either friends or—part.
More by David Garrick
- SONG, written in 1756
- Songs, Song
- Songs, Song
- SONNET, left on the Dutchess of Devonshire's Breakfast-table, in consequence of calling on her Grace at Noon…
- The Hot-Bed's Advice to a certain Gardener
- The Sick Monkey, a Fable
- To Dr. Hill upon his Petition of the Letter I to Mr. Garrick
- To Mr. Derrick, upon his recalling his Orders against dancing Minuets in Sacks