 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
96
A Gentleman to a Lady that told him he lookt asquint upon her.
A Squint? why not, am I of Eagles race,
To try mine eyes upon Apollo's Face?
Admit I were? yet, when I look on thee,
Thy brighter beams force this obliquity.
Eagles should do the same, durst they but try
Their radiance at the birth-right of their eye.
What is this squinting, but, my feeble sight
Turn'd out of th' way by thy too powerful light?
Nay, could mine eye right on to thine aspire?
'Twould, burning glass-like set my heart on fire.
But, say I could? since thou thus slightest me,
What reason have I to look right on thee.
Come, be not you so cross-grain'd, to despise
A Breast that showes Her crosses in Her eyes.
Who silently each other thus reprove,
T'have let in cruel and ingrateful love.
Or else that eye is looking still at this,
Like Rivals jealous of each others bliss.
To try mine eyes upon Apollo's Face?
Admit I were? yet, when I look on thee,
Thy brighter beams force this obliquity.
Eagles should do the same, durst they but try
Their radiance at the birth-right of their eye.
What is this squinting, but, my feeble sight
Turn'd out of th' way by thy too powerful light?
Nay, could mine eye right on to thine aspire?
'Twould, burning glass-like set my heart on fire.
But, say I could? since thou thus slightest me,
What reason have I to look right on thee.
Come, be not you so cross-grain'd, to despise
A Breast that showes Her crosses in Her eyes.
Who silently each other thus reprove,
T'have let in cruel and ingrateful love.
97
Like Rivals jealous of each others bliss.
Clouds the Sun's Creatures are, and what am I,
But the meer Exhalation of Your eye.
The flies are buzzing where light Candles are,
And smoak. You know ever pursues the Fair:
Dayes interchange embraces with the night,
And shadows kiss the lovely Lips of light,
Why then (Florinda) art thou so unkind,
To scoffe the Mole, thy Beauty made thus blind?
But, am I blind, dost say? even thence does slow
This solace, that the God of Love is so:
Am I squint-ey'd, then I may glory in't,
The Sun it self, lights centre, looks asquint.
But the meer Exhalation of Your eye.
The flies are buzzing where light Candles are,
And smoak. You know ever pursues the Fair:
Dayes interchange embraces with the night,
And shadows kiss the lovely Lips of light,
Why then (Florinda) art thou so unkind,
To scoffe the Mole, thy Beauty made thus blind?
But, am I blind, dost say? even thence does slow
This solace, that the God of Love is so:
Am I squint-ey'd, then I may glory in't,
The Sun it self, lights centre, looks asquint.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |