I PRAY thee, Strephon, break thy lyre
And cease to sing my praise;
Indeed, such mockery my ire
To fury’s point doth raise.
Thou know’st I am no “queen divine”
With sunbeams in my hair,
But just a simple brown-tressed maid
And not surpassing fair.
I am not ” coy,” I am not ” proud,”
No “gulf” us twain doth ” sever j”
And where I tread the daisies lie
As they were dead for ever.
And when I walk I am alone
Unless Fate thee should send me,
A “thousand thousand little loves”
Did never yet attend me.
When I go forth, it rains as oft
For me as other mortals:
The sun is not my ” serving-man”
Nor waits he at my ” portals.”
Shalt call me ” Sweet,” shalt call me ” Dear,’
But not a “crowned Venus.”
So drown thy poesy in love
Or all must end between us.
For though the ways of love be sweet
And thou the man for me,
Each single joy I will forego
An thou wilt not agree.
(Ethel Clifford)
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