OH! LET NOT YOUR PASSION FOR MARY THE
MAID.
I
Oh! let not your passion for Mary the maid,
Cause you, my Lord Harry, to blush;
When beauty ennobles, immediately fade
Birth, parentage, duster, and brush.
E'en pride from her presence shall never recoil,
Her smiles all impediments soften,
And who is more likely to make the pot boil
Than she who has boil'd it so often?
II
Then throw by your gun, it might worry her nerves,
As she settles her sweets on the shelf;
And why should you shoot on a neighbour's preserves,
When she's making preserves for yourself:
She will prove to you soon, if you raise her aloft,
She is worthy the warmest of lovers!
She will superintend all your courses, and oft
Give new zest to the scent of your covers.
III
Regard not her frown—you may penetrate stone,
By the dripping of water they say;
Take courage, your pretty plain cook is not one
On whom dripping can be thrown away.
You shrink from nobility's daughter who loves
To freeze you with manners majestic,
And your choice of a partner for life only proves
That your habits are strictly domestic.
