 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
5
A Complement of a Gentleman in his Ale to a Lady of Quality.
Are you a Nurse, Madam? I want one for a Puppy.
Who ever heard of such a vile mistake?
But, doubtless, for himself the Puppy spake.
Or rather bark'd: why didst not ask thy Mother?
She that one Puppy nurs'd, could nurse another.
She would have don't (indeed none had been fitter)
Especially for one of her own litter.
Couldst thou prophane those hills of Alpine snow
From whence Elixir and Nepenthe flow,
And prate of Puppies there where Princes may
Out-rival Jove in a more milky way?
Thou mightst have seen through th' eye befriending lawn,
Breasts, never made by Puppies to be drawn,
Whose each sweet Nipple is our Wonders Theam
A Strawberry center'd in a bowl of Cream.
But, doubtless, for himself the Puppy spake.
Or rather bark'd: why didst not ask thy Mother?
She that one Puppy nurs'd, could nurse another.
She would have don't (indeed none had been fitter)
Especially for one of her own litter.
Couldst thou prophane those hills of Alpine snow
From whence Elixir and Nepenthe flow,
And prate of Puppies there where Princes may
Out-rival Jove in a more milky way?
Thou mightst have seen through th' eye befriending lawn,
Breasts, never made by Puppies to be drawn,
Whose each sweet Nipple is our Wonders Theam
A Strawberry center'd in a bowl of Cream.
But thou, thou didst not know her dost protest;
And all the reason was, she was not drest;
Not drest? more blind than Moles, couldst thou not tell
A Pearl's a Pearl, though in an Oyster shell?
Sure thou wouldst make a sad Astrologer,
That for her Night-gear can'st not see a Star.
I should have seen, though pass'd at distance by't,
A twinkling Gloworm in a darker night.
She's not beholden to the Cloaths she wears
For they are not her honour, but she theirs.
And let me tell you, you were ill advis'd;
For 'twas not she, but you that were disguis'd.
And all the reason was, she was not drest;
Not drest? more blind than Moles, couldst thou not tell
A Pearl's a Pearl, though in an Oyster shell?
Sure thou wouldst make a sad Astrologer,
That for her Night-gear can'st not see a Star.
I should have seen, though pass'd at distance by't,
A twinkling Gloworm in a darker night.
She's not beholden to the Cloaths she wears
For they are not her honour, but she theirs.
And let me tell you, you were ill advis'd;
For 'twas not she, but you that were disguis'd.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |