University of Virginia Library

Delays are dangerous—Ah, me!
Ce'st bien vrai—as you shall see.
And that example may be found,
We'll turn the subject round and round.

A time there is in woman's life,
That fixes her a maid or wife.
A ribbon'd youth with sword and sash on,
Courting that pretty flirt—Miss Fashion;
Romances thus on each lov'd feature:
“Gods! was e'er seen so sweet a creature?”
Then struck the gorget on his breast,
And warmer thus his flame express'd:
“Jove, what a brow! what bon-ton swim!
“Her shape how elegantly slim!
“What graces in that train behind!
“Each fold denotes a taste refin'd.
“Then such good breeding crowns the whole,
“In every movement there is soul.
“My angel, name the happy day;
“But let it quickly be I pray.”
‘The First of April then, (says she)
‘I yield to—your felicity.
‘You men are so importunate,
‘But wedlock's an affair of weight.’
“O my adorable, I know,
“And well he turn'd it to and fro.
“Ah, that the blessed morn were here!
“My love, my life, my soul, my dear!
The usual thumps and sighings past,
This blessed morn arrives at last.
“Well now my charming Fashion! now,
“Come, blooming come, fulfil your vow.
“Thus on his knee your Sword-knot begs.”
‘Do, pray Sir, get upon your legs.
‘To see a soldier on his knees,
‘In military times like these,
‘Is really shocking I protest!—
‘This nasty cough so breaks my rest,
‘I have not slept a wink all night—
‘Then how I look!—I'm quite a fright!
‘If I to-day were made your wife,
‘I'm positive 'twould cost my life.
‘To leave my room some risks I run—
‘Observe—I've still my night-cap on.
‘I am so ill and feel so queer—
‘Pray put it off now—there's a dear,
‘Postpone it, if you love your Fashion.”
“Postpone it, Madam! (in a passion)
“Fire, flints, and fury! what d'ye say?
“May thunders rive me if I stay!
“Plain yes, or no? I ask no more,”
‘For heav'n's sake Sukey shut that door:
‘There comes such whiffs into my neck,
‘And I'm so subject to a creek;
‘Stay but a month for Pity's sake—
‘Lord how I stretch—I'm scarce awake.’
“For ever, Madam, sleep for me,
“I'll well reward your perfidy.
“Yes, Madam, sleep I say for ever,
“No more I'll trouble you—no never!
“Delays are dangerous (he cries)
“Oh when will womankind be wise?
“Farewel, go weep the occasion past,
“You'll prove the April fool at last.”
And so she did. Her airs miscarried,
She's forty-nine, and—still unmarried.

“Since Fortune gives th' power to bless,
“In pity soften my distress!
“If a small pittance you deny,
“This day, this hour, perhaps, I die.”
A wretched suppliant thus in tears,
Press'd by the load of life and years,
To Sophron gay, his suit prefer'd,
And thus his earnest wish was heard:
‘Yes, honest man, I see you're poor,
‘And heartily your case deplore,
‘A little money you would borrow?
‘I'm busy now, but call to-morrow.’

To-morrow is a day too late,
Thus tolls the passing bell of fate;
Delays are dangerous my friend,
Or lend in time, or never lend:
No gold can bribe the moment fled;
Put up your purse—the poor man's dead.

A thing there is—ye maids beware—
Which once was young, might once be fair,
Except an ogle now and then,
Strange, her antipathy to men!
In the same house to fleer and fling,
There liv'd another ancient thing,
Brother and sister, strange to tell,
Thus led a life of ding-dong bell,
This pair of antiquated wights,
Full sadly past unspoused nights,
For ever at each other rail,
And this the burthen of the tale:

‘That's downright malice sister Bridget
‘—Aye you may fume, and fret, and fidget.
‘But long since you cou'd offers boast,
‘I, was the dear Dorinda's toast.
‘She hob'd and nob'd me by the hour,
‘Said I had eyes—and felt their power;
‘Then bumper'd me each day at dinner’—
“Lord, brother, whut a wretched sinner!
“Your day, old batchelor was over
“Ere Salprunella was my lover;
“With me he fell in love you know,
“When I receiv'd that ugly blow;
“And as he bled my snowy arm,
“Swore in each pulse he felt a charm.”
‘P'shaw! p'shaw! old maid, 'tis false as hell,
‘'Twas all a flam—you feign'd unwell,
‘To catch the doctor?—Hah! to catch?
‘At this they flounce—at this they scratch.’
“And is it, brother, come to this?
“Sweet wither'd sir”—‘Oh! blooming miss!’
“Madam 'tis well”—‘No, Ma'am 'tis ill,’—
“But I can ask the question still.”
‘Come then, it shall—it shall be married,
‘Tho' fifty years it has miscarried.’
“Ma'am, Ma'am, 'tis false”—Sir, Sir, 'tis true
‘You were most slighted’—“No Ma'am you,
“I'll leave the house”—‘Aye, prithee go,
‘The apes are waiting you below,’
“John call a coach,”—‘With all my heart.’
Slap goes the door, and thus they part.
Brother and sister hold your tongue,
Idly ye rail, for both are wrong,
Your wrinkles, and your wranglings prove
Delays are dangerous in love.

Our muse shall array the fourth instance in sattin,
And your tit-up-ing verse she can tell it most pat-in,
Oh! ye zephyrs breathe gently on fair Mr. Sleek,
For the roses—of Warren—now essence his cheek,
Those sensative roses that die at the touch,
And lose all their colour if blown on too much,
Then the lillies of Moseneau blossom beneath,
And Spence has a pension for guarding the teeth,
At one every morning he rubs the brush thro' them,
And the pretty one grins, that the ladies may view 'em;
Then he rides! Oh ye Gods!—he does ride to be sure,
While the horse seems to aid his lov'd Lord in the lure:
Each caper, each curvet, discovers his art,
And every prance, sends a prance to the heart.
But you say that the world will accuse me of satire,
Why, I know that the world is most prone to good nature;
But then I am talking of nothing you find,
For this femaleish male has no meaning nor mind,
Delays being dangerous, therefore I vote,
(Since riddle-mee-rees are scarce worth finding out)
I vote that—no hang it, I will not be cruel,
I will not provoke the dear thing to a duel:
The Perfumer for damage would sue me at law,
So the motion about to be made I withdraw;
And with perfect good humour I change this dead letter,
And leave this soft nothing for something—scarce better.
Oh heavens! what spectre hov'ring o'er
Is ent'ring now at yonder door,
Where pale Lucullus gasps for breath?
Angels and Ministers! 'tis Death!
Close he stalk'd by me yester-night
And my blood sallied at the sight.
Lucullus beg'd another day,
The bony Monarch went away;
Lucullus promis'd to repent
And begg'd a day with such intent.
Death had no sooner left the room
Than life and all its follies bloom,
The bony Monarch finds him now
Unmindful of the pious vow.
Assumes the life disposing nod
And shews the mandate of his God.
‘Yet one more hour the culprit cries,
‘As trembling on his bed he lies,
‘One little moment yet dispense?
‘It may not be—Thou'rt summon'd hence.’
“Delays are dangerous, thou fool,
“May Heav'n shew mercy on thy soul.”

Young Claudio plays a desperate hand,
What axes echo thro' the land!
And scarce a lonely tree remains
To screen the woodman from the rains,
The sorrowing oxen, as they go,
Curse thoughtless Claudio in their lowe;
And presently those oxen die,
Another handful to supply.
The poor esteem its vastly cruel,
There's not a stick to warm their gruel;
Then execrate the gambler's art,
Which opes the hand but shuts the heart;
For Claudio vends his very faggots
To bet upon a race of maggots.
His birds too mourn, the ruin'd grove,
Once vocal with the song of love.
In good Sir Careful's thrifty day,
They nested safe on ev'ry spray:
Look, says a poor defruded thrush,
Claudeo has stubb'd my nuptial bush.
See, quoth a rook upon the ground,
The duce a tree can now be found;
Each house in our aërial town
This spendthrift landlord has cut down,
The man has ruin'd all my friends,
And havock o'er each grove impends:
But dearly shall he pay the scheme,
He pluck'd us rooks, now rooks pluck him.
“Claudio, that last was a good hit,
“Rise instant rise, the table quit,
“Delays are dangerous.” ‘I go
‘Soon as I've tried another throw.’
“Delays are dangerous—stop in time.”
‘P'shaw, nonsense! damn your boring rhime,
‘You put me out.’—He rashly threw,
Lost the last guinea and withdrew,
Delays are dangerous, he said,
Then snap'd a pistol at his head.

Thus, having swirl'd the theme about
And pointed some examples out,
'Tis time to take my leave of verse—
O! for a couplet pat and terse!
By way of moral—hang it now!
When wit's most wanted none will flow:
That's so provoking, Muse, so hard,
Throws such a damp upon the bard,
'Tis really monstrous I declare—
And then a tag gives such an air.
Indeed this sudden fall of snow
Makes hobbling Pegasus move slow.
Would but the Muse—hush! hush! behold her
Lean from the Vase, and touch my shoulder;
She whispers that I talk too long,
Delays are dangerous in song;
Her sacred Counsel I attend,
And bring my poem to an end.