When I consider the rich regal chiefs of our community,

How much cowries enriched by, what obsequious honours;

How many wives, concubines, children, huts and further favours;

I muse, were I heir to these, what to me it should signify:

Then to exchange, with that of kings, my state of wretched penury,

And forgo my old loving parents, still who love me too dearly;

And choose such virgin-maid as I please of the maidenry, without pains to woo,

Though she should marvel at this rare favour too;

And buy sour-hearted, sweet-lipped friends about, to speak in vulgar gatherings,

How we take pleasure in rude insolent things,

How we have some old man spat on, and augmented some old lady’s burden –

With all this still I couldn’t be happy, but think my sorrows would heighten!

Then that old civil war in me, resurging again, restores new peace;

When, sick with all these, I think your love true, as man’s for food is!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on June 15, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry, Trends

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