Poems by Matthew Stevenson | ||
150
To the Fair and Faithful.
Yet wish to know her, for, she sweeter is,Than Indian spices for Elysian blisse.
Were she but Comely, Courteous, and Tall,
Constant, and Chast as Doves, if that were all,
I could not love her, though injoyn'd by fate?
Nature does this in others imitate:
But she's a vertue, may from vice recall
The World, and be the saving of us all.
Poems by Matthew Stevenson | ||