 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
135
A LA MODE.
My better self, my Heav'n, my Joy!
While thus imparadis'd I lie,
Transported in thy circling Arms
With fresh Variety of Charms;
From Fate I scarce can think to crave
A Bliss, but what in Thee I have.
Twelve Months, my Dear, have past, since thou
Didst plight to me thy Virgin Vow;
Twelve Months in Rapture spent! For they
Seem shorter than St. Lucy's Day:
A bright Example we shall prove
Of lasting Matrimonial Love.
While thus imparadis'd I lie,
Transported in thy circling Arms
With fresh Variety of Charms;
From Fate I scarce can think to crave
A Bliss, but what in Thee I have.
Twelve Months, my Dear, have past, since thou
Didst plight to me thy Virgin Vow;
Twelve Months in Rapture spent! For they
Seem shorter than St. Lucy's Day:
A bright Example we shall prove
Of lasting Matrimonial Love.
136
Mean while, I beg the Gods to grant
(The only Favour that I want)
That I may not survive, to see
My Happiness expire with thee.
O! shou'd I lose my dearest Dear,
By Thee, and all that's good, I swear,
I'd give my self the fatal Blow;
And wait Thee to the World below.
(The only Favour that I want)
That I may not survive, to see
My Happiness expire with thee.
O! shou'd I lose my dearest Dear,
By Thee, and all that's good, I swear,
I'd give my self the fatal Blow;
And wait Thee to the World below.
When Wheedle thus to Spouse in Bed,
Spoke the best things he e'er had read;
Madam surpriz'd, (you must suppose it)
Had lock'd a Templer in the Closet:
A Youth of pregnant Parts, and Worth,
To play at Picquet, and so forth—
This Wag, when he had heard the whole,
Demurely to the Curtains stole;
And peeping in, with solemn Tone
Cry'd out, O Man! Thy Days are done:
The Gods are fearful of the worst,
And send me, Death, to fetch thee first;
To save their Fav'rite from Self-murder,
Lo! thus I execute their Order.
Hold, Sir, for second Thoughts are best.
The Husband cry'd; 'tis my Request
With Pleasure to prolong my Life.—
Your Meaning?—Pray, Sir, take my Wife.
Spoke the best things he e'er had read;
Madam surpriz'd, (you must suppose it)
Had lock'd a Templer in the Closet:
A Youth of pregnant Parts, and Worth,
To play at Picquet, and so forth—
This Wag, when he had heard the whole,
Demurely to the Curtains stole;
And peeping in, with solemn Tone
Cry'd out, O Man! Thy Days are done:
137
And send me, Death, to fetch thee first;
To save their Fav'rite from Self-murder,
Lo! thus I execute their Order.
Hold, Sir, for second Thoughts are best.
The Husband cry'd; 'tis my Request
With Pleasure to prolong my Life.—
Your Meaning?—Pray, Sir, take my Wife.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |