 | Young Arthur |  |
This the refinement now we boast,
Naïveté and nerve or stray'd, or lost;
O, dear refinement! lovely thing!
Gliding along with filmy wing,
Sweeping with grace a velvet green,
Where flowers to nature new are seen:
Lisping with language honied sweet,
With flowing liquids all replete,
Accenting for the softest ear,
While light sensations hover near
And catch the tone soft grace approves,
To whisper it to softer loves.
What art thou good for, flimsy fairy?
To cozen maids, nor wise nor wary;
The vigour of the mind efface,
The muscles melt, the nerves unbrace,
The fancy and the passions taint;
Thou velvet virtue! muslin saint!
Metheglin thou of unbrac'd health;
Thou plague! brought over here by stealth;
Thou illegitimate, between
Italia's glaze and Gallia's spleen;
Thou beauty's line,
not curv'd, but bandy,
Thou sense of dream and soul of dandy.
Refinement thou? thou tissue thing!
Not worth a feather of her wing.
Refinement thou?
Naïveté and nerve or stray'd, or lost;
O, dear refinement! lovely thing!
Gliding along with filmy wing,
Sweeping with grace a velvet green,
Where flowers to nature new are seen:
Lisping with language honied sweet,
With flowing liquids all replete,
Accenting for the softest ear,
While light sensations hover near
And catch the tone soft grace approves,
To whisper it to softer loves.
What art thou good for, flimsy fairy?
To cozen maids, nor wise nor wary;
The vigour of the mind efface,
The muscles melt, the nerves unbrace,
The fancy and the passions taint;
Thou velvet virtue! muslin saint!
Metheglin thou of unbrac'd health;
Thou plague! brought over here by stealth;
Thou illegitimate, between
Italia's glaze and Gallia's spleen;
231
Thou sense of dream and soul of dandy.
Refinement thou? thou tissue thing!
Not worth a feather of her wing.
Refinement thou?
| Young Arthur | |