The Conveyance. 1654

MY thoughts were vain, as well as high,
To hope the favour of your Eye.
You shed your Beams on Objects fine,
On such as do deserve your shine.
Your Rayes live at a higher rate
Than Sol's; who does debase his State
In gilding Dirt; all must consess,
In seeing us, you do no less.
Yet, since we Rusticks justly may,
In Harvest, wish a Sun-shine day;
'Tis not a crime to wish you here;
For without you no dayes are clear.
This Paper rhymes,—because 'tis meet
A Lacquey should not want his feet:
Such is my Muse; who comes to day,
Only this Letter to convey.
Acceptance almost is its due;
Since, Madam, it was born for you.
'Twill ne'r appear, unless it be
Adorn'd in your rich Livery.
For Wit and Fancy grow so scarce,
Your Name must bring 'em into Verse.