 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
6
To Clarinda.
Away with fond Hyperbolies,Subliming dust to deities,
I purpose but to say y'are fair,
As envy must confess you are;
If you were not? you should not hire
My praise, should knees plead your desire.
But you are so, which to deny,
Can be no less than Heresie
Doubtless the Queen of Beauty was
But like your self, some pretty Lass,
Till by her Cyprian Zealots she
Mounted the stile of Deity;
Had you liv'd then, I really do
Presume y' had been a Goddess too,
For in your features Men may see
The God of Love's Artillery.
Your Curling Tress is all the bow
The wanton Wars with here below,
His Fierlocks too, we espy
Presented in your sparkling eye.
Your fame's his Trumpet, and Men seek
His Banners in Your bashful Cheek.
Your Pearly rowes at every smile,
Like Cadmus Troops, stand Rank and File,
If there then be a Front so fair
We need not of the rest despair.
Nil non laudabile vidi.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |