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As the resident artist at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at Amerika-Institut of LMU München, where I edit a weekly circular of U.S. poetry, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach English and tutor composition.

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XXVII


by Richard Lincke


The loue-hurt hart which Tyrant Cupid wounds,

  proudly insulting o're his conquer'd pray,
  doth bleede afresh where pleasure most abounds,
  for mirth and mourning always make a fray.
Looke as a Bird sore bruzed with a blowe,
  (lately deuiding notes most sweetly singing)
  to heare her fellowes how in tunes they flow,
  doth droope and pine as though her knel were ringing.
The heauie-thoughted Prys'ner full of doubt,
  dolefully sitting in a close-bar'd cage,
  is halfe contented, till he looketh out,
  he sees each free, then stormes hee in a rage ;
The sight of pleasure trebleth euery payne,
As small Brooks swell and are inrag'd with rayne.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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