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 | Poems (1791) |  |
Tho TALKATIVE FAIR.
BALLAD V.
I
From morn to night, from day to dayAt all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease:
II
Forbear, my Celia, oh! forbear,If your own health, or ours you prize
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing han your yes.
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III
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,Your fame's by your own noise obscur'd,
All are distracted while they gaze;
But if they listen, they are cur'd.
IV
Your silence wou'd acquire more praise,Than all you say, or all I write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
Then hush—and be an angel quite.
| Poems (1791) | |