| |
| GALLANTS, 1 a bashful Poet bids me say | |
| He’s come to lose his Maidenhead to-day. | |
| Be not too fierce, for he’s but green of Age, | |
| And ne’re till now debauch’d upon the Stage. | |
| He wants the suff’ring part of Resolution, | 5 |
| And comes with blushes to his Execution. | |
| E’re you deflow’r his Muse, he hopes the Pit | |
| Will make some Settlement upon his Wit. | |
| Promise him well, before the Play begin; | |
| For he wou’d fain be cozen’d into Sin. | 10 |
| ’Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail; | |
| But, if you leave him after being frail, | |
| He’ll have, at least, a fair Pretence to rail; | |
| To call you base, and swear you us’d him ill, | |
| And put you in the new Deserters Bill: | 15 |
| Lord, what a Troop of perjur’d Men we see; | |
| Enough to fill another Mercury! | |
| But this the Ladies may with patience brook: | |
| Their’s are not the first Colours you forsook! | |
| He wou’d be loth the Beauties to offend; | 20 |
| But if he shou’d, he’s not too old to mend. | |
| He’s a young Plant, in his first Year of bearing, | |
| But his Friend swears he will be worth the reering. | |
| His Gloss is still upon him, tho’s ’tis true | |
| He’s yet unripe, yet take him for the blue. | 25 |
| You think an Apricot half green is best; | |
| There’s sweet and sour; and one side good at least. | |
| Mango’s and Limes, 2 whose Nourishment is little, | |
| Tho’ not for Food, are yet preserv’d for Pickle. | |
| So this green Writer may pretend, at least, | 30 |
| To whet your Stomachs for a better Feast. | |
| He makes this Difference in the Sexes too; | |
| He sells to Men, he gives himself to you. | |
| To both he wou’d contribute some delight; | |
| A mere Poetical Hermaphrodite, | 35 |
| Thus he’s equipp’d, both to be woo’d and woo; | |
| With Arms offensive, and defensive too; | |
| ’Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do. | |
