Far into the ash-grey woods, and well about the green glades,

Straying here and there, spitting everywhere,

Restless, perplexed by the plaguish rumours in our hamlet I hear –

How you rough-wear your friends till bright friendship fades;

How dishonour the throne of your father;

And trample your mother’s loving counsels;

I wonder, that those easy born die rebels

To the upright prefecture of Virtue, and Vice’s charms do prefer.

Then I wonder, if peasant-me be taken up in that hand

Which weighs your fellow high and noble so small,

How I’d scale with you, though my weighty heart bears its love-freight all –

And fear you should all this bond of love freely disband!

Yet through the course of time I find to hold this grudge dear in mind –

That you make your faults bold as day, but first do render me blind!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on May 22, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary

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