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I wrote my sighs, and sent them to my love;
I praised that fair that none enough could praise;
But plaints nor praises could fair Licia move;
Above my reach she did her virtues raise,
And thus replied: "False Scrawl, untrue thou art,
To feign those sighs that nowhere can be found;
For half those praises came not from his heart
Whose faith and love as yet was never found.
Thy master's life, false Scrawl shall be thy doom;
Because he burns, I judge thee to the flame;
Both your attempts deserve no better room."
Thus at her word we ashes both became.
Believe me, fair, and let my paper live;
Or be not fair, and so me freedom give.
Giles Fletcher Senior
| Submitted Date |
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Thursday, January 01, 2004 |
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Read poems about / on: freedom, faith, believe, heart, love
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