The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
277
LISETTA.
In the name of the great god of love, how shall I dispose of myself? Which of my swains must wear the willow?
O Virgins, tell me how to choose,
For I'm a novice on it—
Poor Colin at a distance wooes,
And sends his soul in sonnet;
For I'm a novice on it—
Poor Colin at a distance wooes,
And sends his soul in sonnet;
While Lubin, to no forms a slave,
Won't stay to write for blisses;
But prints upon my mouth, the knave,
His wishes with his kisses.
Won't stay to write for blisses;
But prints upon my mouth, the knave,
His wishes with his kisses.
If Lubin seize a rude embrace,
And I begin to clatter;
The rogue stares gravely in my face,
And asks me what's the matter?
And I begin to clatter;
The rogue stares gravely in my face,
And asks me what's the matter?
Of kisses lately he stole three—
I shriek'd with might and main:
‘Since ye don't like them,’ pert quoth he,
‘Lord! take them back again.’
I shriek'd with might and main:
‘Since ye don't like them,’ pert quoth he,
‘Lord! take them back again.’
‘No, no, I won't,’ says I, keep off,
They please me much,’ I swore—
‘Oh, is it so cried he, ‘enough;
Then, Miss, you wish for more.’
They please me much,’ I swore—
‘Oh, is it so cried he, ‘enough;
Then, Miss, you wish for more.’
Poor Colin turns, if I but frown,
All white as any fleece is!
Lubin would give me a green gown,
And rummage me to pieces.
All white as any fleece is!
Lubin would give me a green gown,
And rummage me to pieces.
278
The one, so meek and complaisant,
All silence, awe, and wonder;
The other, impudence and rant,
And boist'rous as the thunder.
All silence, awe, and wonder;
The other, impudence and rant,
And boist'rous as the thunder.
This begs to press my finger's tip,
So bashful is my lover;
That savage bounces on my lip,
And kisses it all over.
So bashful is my lover;
That savage bounces on my lip,
And kisses it all over.
O Modesty thou art so sweet!
Not wild, and bold, and teasing;
And yet, each sister nymph I meet
Thinks boldness not unpleasing.
Not wild, and bold, and teasing;
And yet, each sister nymph I meet
Thinks boldness not unpleasing.
This is a wicked world!—O dear!
And wickedness is in me—
Though Modesty's so sweet, I fear
That Impudence will win me.
And wickedness is in me—
Though Modesty's so sweet, I fear
That Impudence will win me.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |