And suppose the darlings get to Mantua,
suppose they cheat the crypt, what next? Begin
with him, unshaven. Though not, I grant you, a
displeasing cockerel, there's egg yolk on his chin.
His seedy robe's aflap, he's got the rheum.
Poor dear, the cooking lard has smoked her eye.
Another Montague is in the womb
although the first babe's bottom's not yet dry.
She scrolls a weekly letter to her Nurse
who dares to send a smock through Balthasar,
and once a month, his father posts a purse.
News from Verona? Always news of war.
Such sour years it takes to right this wrong!
The fifth act runs unconscionably long.
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Comments about this poem (Purgatory by Maxine Kumin )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
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(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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