Covid the 3rd
Now is the summer of our troppo paradise
Made sullen winter by this pretty virus;
And all the sun that shone upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with funeral wreaths;
Our bronzed arms hung up for effigies;
Our happy discourse changed to boring meetings,
Our merry dance to funeral march.
Soothing peace transforms to grim-visaged war;
And now, instead of gentle flirting in shady ways,
To please the souls of friendly watchers,
We mount barbed steeds, to the alarums of
Call to war, ‘gainst hidden foes.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this trumpet sounded time of pestilence,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To condemn these frightening days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And fan the evil dangers of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set Politicians and the Common man
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if Parliament be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should COVID-19 closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'C'
Of Nature’s heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
COVID-19 comes.
Copyright © Edward Clapham | Year Posted 2020
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