AS some fond virgin, whom her mother’s care | |
| Drags from the town to wholesome country air, | |
| Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, | |
| And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh— | |
| From the dear man unwilling she must sever, | 5 |
| Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever— | |
| Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, | |
| Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; | |
| Not that their pleasures caus’d her discontent; | |
| She sigh’d not that they stay’d, but that she went. | 10 |
| She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, | |
| Old-fashion’d halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: | |
| She went from Op’ra, Park, Assembly, Play, | |
| To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day; | |
| To part her time ’twixt reading and Bohea, | 15 |
| To muse, and spill her solitary tea; | |
| Or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, | |
| Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon; | |
| Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, | |
| Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire; | 20 |
| Up to her godly garret after sev’n, | |
| There starve and pray, for that ’s the way to Heav’n. | |
| Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack, | |
| Whose game is Whist, whose treat a toast in sack; | |
| Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, | 25 |
| Then gives a smacking buss, and cries—‘No words!’ | |
| Or with his hounds comes hollowing from the stable, | |
| Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; | |
| Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse, | |
| And loves you best of all things—but his horse. | 30 |
| In some fair ev’ning, on your elbow laid, | |
| You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; | |
| In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, | |
| See coronations rise on ev’ry green: | |
| Before you pass th’ imaginary sights | 35 |
| Of Lords and Earls and Dukes and garter’d Knights, | |
| While the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes; | |
| Then gives one flirt, and all the vision flies. | |
| Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, | |
| And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls! | 40 |
| So when your Slave, at some dear idle time | |
| (Not plagued with headaches or the want of rhyme) | |
| Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, | |
| And while he seems to study, thinks of you; | |
| Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes, | 45 |
| Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, | |
| Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite, | |
| Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs rush upon my sight; | |
| Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow, | |
| Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now. | 50 |
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