FROM the fair Lavinian shore, I your markets come to store: Muse not, though so far I dwell, And my wares come here to sell. Such is the sacred hunger of gold: Then come to my pack, While I cry 'What d'ye lack, What d'ye buy? For here it is to be sold.' I have beauty, honour, grace. Fortune, favour, time, and place; And what else thou wouldst request, E'en the thing thou lik'st the best. First let me have a touch of thy gold: Then come to me, lad, Thou shalt have What thy dad Never gave, For here it is to be sold. Madam, for your wrinkled face, Here's complexion, it to grace, Which, if your earnest be but small, It takes away the virtue all, But if your palms are anointed with gold, Then you shall seem Like a queen Of fifteen, Though you are threescore years old. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 9 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ON A GREEK VASE by FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN ODE TO THE RIVER TEIGN by JOHN CODRINGTON BAMPFYLDE TO -- OCCASIONED BY HIS POEM ON THE SUN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF P. BURGESS; A CHILD OF SUPERIOR ENDOWMENTS by BERNARD BARTON |