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.

1. Tell Me, Dorinda, Why So Gay
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3. On King William's Happy Deliverance from the Intended Assassination
4. On the Countess Dowager of Manchester
5. To Mr. Edward Howard on His New

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