To buy my book—if you will be so kind—
Is all I ask of you; and not to look
What fruit lies hid beneath the azure rind:
To buy my book.
This for her hymn-book Rosalind mistook,
When worshipping with yokel, maid, and hind;
Neaera read it in a flowery nook,
And gave her loose curls to the wanton wind.
For this her grammar Sylvia once forsook,
Of you I only ask—you will not mind?—
To buy my book.