Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch
One of her feathered creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent:
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me,
And play the mother's part: kiss me, be kind.
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,
If thou turn back and my loud crying still.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 122: Thy Gift, Thy Tables, Are Within My Brain
- Sonnet 126: O Thou, My Lovely Boy, Who In Thy Power
- Sonnet 14: Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck
- Sonnet 16: But Wherefore Do Not You A Mightier Way
- Sonnet 55: Not Marble, Nor The Gilded Monuments