Poems by Matthew Stevenson | ||
To Boscobella.
Madam,
I love, and truly, should I not,I must have both You, and my self forgot?
I talk not of the little winged Boy,
Nor his Fair flattering Mother that burnt Troy.
Nor cloath I my Discourse in Past'ral dresse,
Call my self Swain, nor You my Sheperdesse.
I rank You not with Heavens bright Tutelars,
Nor Rival You unto the Moon, or Stars.
Condemn not then my plainnesse, for I mean
No feigned story, but Love's faithful scene.
And send You therefore to augment its Fuel,
This present of Plain dealing, for a Jewel.
Poems by Matthew Stevenson | ||