 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
L. B. To his Mistris E. R. to whom he sent half a dozen pair of Gloves, which She sent back again, and after would have had them, and he would not send them.
I sent, and you sent back, you would not deignAcceptance, I accepted them again.
I had perhaps added my self to boot,
But Ideots know not Hercles by his foot.
And now your errour you too late condole,
Slighting the parcel, you have lost the whole
An earnest of my Love, I sent you then;
In earnest I shall never send again.
Your reason herein you have much abus'd,
To beg the booty that you once refus'd.
So Children of a little piece complain,
Throw it away, and cry for it again.
Of any thing call'd mine, you ne're shall brag,
I'le put it first in the poor Women's bag.
In this you neither Wit, nor manners had,
Fool, to refuse, and to remand it, mad.
Thus is your rudeness, and repentance born,
Like Trophe's to the Triumph of my scorn.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |