From Lucinda, To Her Lover at the Wars
Tell me not, Sweet, thou think to find,
Should thou return to me
That my chaste breast and quiet mind
Are still a nunnery.
And since thou seek the battlefield
And shun the wedding bed,
Take thy sword, thy horse, thy shield,
And marry them instead.
Yet know 'twas not alone the war
To blame for such an end.
I might have loved thee, Dear, much more,
Loved I not thy best friend.
Last edited by Marion Shore; 04-10-2009 at 03:15 PM.
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