 | Poems upon various subjects |  |
134
TO SOME LADIES, WHO SAID THE AUTHOR LOVED CHICKEN.
Prudes, forbear your scandal-picking,Own that Phœbe is no Chicken;
If maturity be measur'd
By the virtues, that are treasur'd,
She at fifteen can reckon more
Than you can boast of at threescore;
And while your passion, taste, and skill,
Is dress, and scandal, and quadrille,
'Tis Her's, with books and arts refin'd,
To dress and cultivate the mind,
In easy converse to delight,
A foe to calumny and spight;
In cards and follies you grow old,
Life passing like a tale that's told,
She, like the sun's auspicious ray,
Shines more and more to perfect day,
Her very pastimes shew good sense;
Her Beauty her least excellence.
| Poems upon various subjects | |