Poetical works of the late F. Sayers to which have been prefixed the connected disquisitions on the rise and progress of English poetry, and on English metres, and also some biographic particulars of the author, supplied by W. Taylor |
 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. RACHEL HUNTER,
|
 | Poetical works of the late F. Sayers |  |
LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. RACHEL HUNTER,
ON HER LOSS OF A PAIR OF SLIPPERS.
Anacreon, that galant old poet,
Wish'd in an ode—I am sure you know it—
Without a single thought of scandal,
That he could be his mistress' sandal;
And Hudibras, that queer old codger,
Yet of a woman no bad dodger;
When praising high his favourite beauty,
Honours the shadow of her shoe-tie.
Thus at all times an ardent swain,
In hopes his charmer's smiles to gain,
Cares not what length his passions go,
And worships her from top to toe.
Some steal a ribband, some a locket,
Some put her scissars in their pocket,
To shew they hold in highest honor,
All that their mistress bears upon her.
Wish'd in an ode—I am sure you know it—
Without a single thought of scandal,
That he could be his mistress' sandal;
And Hudibras, that queer old codger,
Yet of a woman no bad dodger;
When praising high his favourite beauty,
Honours the shadow of her shoe-tie.
Thus at all times an ardent swain,
267
Cares not what length his passions go,
And worships her from top to toe.
Some steal a ribband, some a locket,
Some put her scissars in their pocket,
To shew they hold in highest honor,
All that their mistress bears upon her.
Sure then, dear Ma'am, 't is falsely said,
That still you fret, and scold your maid,
And search your closets round and round,
Because your slippers can't be found;
Think but an instant, and you'll see,
'T is a mere trick of gallantry;
For what true lover would despise
To pocket e'en the oddest prize?
That still you fret, and scold your maid,
And search your closets round and round,
Because your slippers can't be found;
Think but an instant, and you'll see,
'T is a mere trick of gallantry;
For what true lover would despise
To pocket e'en the oddest prize?
At least some beau, who sees with fear
Your wanderings in the evening air,
Who loves eternally to be
Blest with your sprightly company:
Might hide your slippers, as a hint,
There's something rather pretty in 't,
That tender ladies should not roam,
And thus he bids you stay at home.
Your wanderings in the evening air,
Who loves eternally to be
Blest with your sprightly company:
Might hide your slippers, as a hint,
There's something rather pretty in 't,
That tender ladies should not roam,
And thus he bids you stay at home.
268
So seems the case: at least 't is vain
To hope to find your goods again—
Whether in man's or woman's power,
Be sure to you they come no more;
For who's so proud as not to choose,
To tread in Mrs. Hunter's shoes?
To hope to find your goods again—
Whether in man's or woman's power,
Be sure to you they come no more;
For who's so proud as not to choose,
To tread in Mrs. Hunter's shoes?
| Poetical works of the late F. Sayers | |