Little think'st thou, poore flower,
Whom I have watch'd sixe or seaven dayes,
And seene thy birth, and seene what every houre
Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough, 
Little think'st thou
That it will freeze anon, and that I shall
To morrow finde thee falne, or not at all.

Little think'st thou poore heart
That labour'st yet to nestle thee, 
And think'st by hovering here to get a part
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,
And hop'st her stiffenesse by long siege to bow:
Little think'st thou,
That thou to morrow, ere that Sunne doth wake, 
Must with this Sunne, and mee a journey take.

But thou which lov'st to bee
Subtile to plague thy selfe, wilt say,
Alas, if you must goe, what's that to mee?
Here lyes my businesse, and here I will stay: 
You goe to friends, whose love and meanes present
Various content
To your eyes, eares, and tongue, and every part.
If then your body goe, what need you a heart?

Well then, stay here; but know, 
When thou hast stayd and done thy most;
A naked thinking heart, that makes no show,
Is to a woman, but a kinde of Ghost;
How shall shee know my heart; or having none,
Know thee for one? 
Practise may make her know some other part,
But take my word, shee doth not know a Heart.

Meet mee at London, then,
Twenty dayes hence, and thou shalt see
Mee fresher, and more fat, by being with men, 
Then if I had staid still with her and thee.
For Gods sake, if you can, be you so too:
I would give you
There, to another friend, whom wee shall finde
As glad to have my body, as my minde.

Granted that you write verse,
Much better than I,
(Which isn’t saying much!)
I wish you would refrain
From making glad romance
Of this most hideous war.
It has no glamour,
Save man’s courage,
His indomitable spirit,
His forgetfulness of self!
If you have words –
Fit word, I mean,
Not your usual stock-in-trade,
Of tags and clichés-
To hymn such greatness,
Use them.
But have you?
Anyone can babble.
If you must wax descriptive,
Do get the background right,
A little right!

The blood, the filth, the horrors,
Suffering on such a scale
That you and I, try as we may,
Can only faintly vision it.
Don’t make a pretty song about it!
It is an insult to the men,
Doomed to be crucified each day,
For us at home!
Abstain too, if you can,
From bidding us to plume ourselves
For being of the self-same breed
As these heroic souls,
With the obvious implication
We have the right to take the credit,
Vicarious credit,
For their immortal deeds!
What next?
It is an outrage!
We are not glory-snatchers!