Charles Sackville

(Dorset, England / 24 January 1638 – 29 January 1706)

Sylvia, Methinks You Are Unfit - Poem by Charles Sackville

Sylvia, methinks you are unfit
For your great Lord's embrace;
For tho' we all allow you wit,
We can't a handsome face.

Then where's the pleasure, where's the good
Of spending time and cost?
For if your wit ben't understood,
Your keeper's bliss is lost.


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Read poems about / on: lost, time



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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