Idea - Part 21
A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo'd,
(Yet his dull Spirit her not one jot could move)
Intreated me, as e'r I wish'd his good,
To write him but one Sonnet to his Love:
When I, as fast as e'r my Penne could trot,
Powr'd out what first from quicke Invention came;
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his Wit, that was to use the same:
But with my Verses he his Mistres wonne,
Who doted on the Dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to Heav'n for Phraze I runne,
And ransacke all A POLLO'S golden Treasure;
Yet by my Froth, this Foole his Love obtaines,
And I lose you, for all my Wit and Paines.
(Yet his dull Spirit her not one jot could move)
Intreated me, as e'r I wish'd his good,
To write him but one Sonnet to his Love:
When I, as fast as e'r my Penne could trot,
Powr'd out what first from quicke Invention came;
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his Wit, that was to use the same:
But with my Verses he his Mistres wonne,
Who doted on the Dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to Heav'n for Phraze I runne,
And ransacke all A POLLO'S golden Treasure;
Yet by my Froth, this Foole his Love obtaines,
And I lose you, for all my Wit and Paines.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.