To Lady E — — H — —

It was not that I lost direction,
Nor is it that I want affection;
No — To be silent I submitted,
Because I found myself outwitted:
You contrive all ways to spite me,
You outlook me, and outwrite me.
Did I teach you all my graces,
All the Muse's different paces:
In heroics to be bounding
With expressions high and sounding,
In sweet lyrics how to amble,
Or in airy odes to ramble?
Did I not the art discover
How, in verse, to hunt a lover?
How, agreeably, to wind him,
And in pleasing fetters bind him,
So that beauty could not steal him,
Wit, nor wine, nor music heal him:
For a pen's a magic wand-a,
Governed by so fine a hand-a,
And the bosom, so gallanted,
May be said to be enchanted.

'Tis not face as fair as lily,
Chalky lady, looking silly,
That can hold a lover to it,
'Tis alone the Female Poet:
Still in different forms appearing,
To divert the eye and hearing,
And inspire the ravished gazer
To adore her, and to praise her;
Not the vapour that does lead us,
By its light o'er dewy meadows,
Makes its followers rage and fret-a
Half so much as a coquet-a.

We're a sort of midnight witches,
Men are our obedient switches:
Is it not a pretty scene-a
To behold this large machin-a,
Called the Lords of the Creation,
Ganders, drove by inclination!
Oh! I hate the wretched victors:
Fancy fain would paint their pictures:
I could hiss these hideous heroes,
Slaves before — and after, Neros.
Now my pen shall play Vandyck-a,
And, with deathless colours, strike-a.

Sighing, sending, sadly sobbing,
Leering like a thief a-robbing;
Silly, sauntering, solitary,
Lest their lying should miscarry,
By a bubbling stream complaining,
Staring, stamping, stars arraigning!
Languid, lolling, picking daisy,
Or a straw, like people crazy!
No dog dancing can exceed 'em,
You may drive 'em, or may lead 'em.

One of yours, of all the throng-a,
Is the favourite of my song-a:
Wit enough for all the others,
Flower and pearl of younger brothers.
Still in verse may he address you,
And, on every tree, confess you,
Till his penknife spare no bark-a
In his noble brother's park-a!
May every echo sigh your name,
And every puppy yelp the same,
While the flying hare pursuing,
Mourning so their master's ruin,
Who hunts you through every turning,
With his passion and his learning.

To both I wish a good success,
And this letter in the press,
Which, for wit, deserves a name-a
In the brazen book of fame-a.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.