Şiir 3
How hard's my hap, to have my fair consign'd
To one, who is imperfect in his kind;
To one, who ne'er can have the pow'r to prove
As woman, or as man, the mutual joys of love!
Who practis'd first on boys the cutting steel,
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Deserv'd himself the fatal wound to feel.
Couldst thou be capable of Cupid's fires,
Or the least sensible of love's desires,
Some pity thou wouldst have on me, and grant
Thy aid, for what thou canst not know I want.
10
Ill suits thee now, the warrior's lance to wield,
To mount the manag'd horse, or lift the brazen shield:
Arms are for men, and not for such as thee,
Who shouldst from ev'ry manly thought be free.
No banner shouldst thou, but thy lady's bear,
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And have no other leader but the fair.
Much it behoves thee then to strive to gain
Her favour, and thou need'st not strive in vain.
Consult her pleasure, and her will obey,
To favour that's the sure, the ready way:
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