Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life.

About this Item

Title
Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life.
Author
Cleveland, John, 1613-1658.
Publication
London :: Printed for Robert Harford ...,
1677.
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Subject terms
Cleveland, John, 1613-1658.
Link to this Item
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A33433.0001.001
Cite this Item
"Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A33433.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 17, 2024.

Pages

A Fair Nymph scorning a Black Boy courting her.

Nymph.
STand off, and let me take the Air, Why should the smoke pursue the fair?
Boy.
My Face is smoke, thence may be guest What Flames within have scorch'd my breast
Nymph.
Thy flaming Love I cannot view For the dark Lanthorn of thy Hue.
Boy.
And yet this Lanthorn keeps Love's Taper Surer than your's that's of white Paper. What ever Midnight can be here, The Moon-shine of your Face will clear.
Nymph.
My Moon of an Eclipse is 'fraid; If thou should'st interpose thy shade.
Boy.
Yet one thing, Sweet-heart, I will ask, Take me for a new fashion'd Mask.

Page 22

Nymph.
Done: but my Bargain shall be this, I'le throw my Mask off when I kiss.
Boy.
Our curl'd Embraces shall delight To checker Limbs with black and white.
Nymph.
Thy Ink, my Paper, make me guess Our Nuptial-bed will prove a Press, And in our Sports, if any come, They'l read a wanton Epigram.
Boy.
Why should my Black thy Love impair? Let the dark Shop commend the Ware; Or if thy Love from black forbears, I'l strive to wash it off with Tears.
Nymph.
Spare fruitless Tears, since thou must needs Still wear about thy mourning Weeds. Tears can no more affection win, Than wash thy Aethiopian Skin.
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