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. A True Account of the Birth and Conception of a Late Famous Poem Call'D The Female Nine
2. To an Antiquated Coquette
3. On the Countess Dowager of Manchester
4. Tell Me, Dorinda, Why So Gay
5. To Mr. Edward Howard on His New

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