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And are you fond of lanes and brooks
A votary of the sylvan Muses ? Or do you con the little books
Which Baron Brougham and Vaux diffuses ? Or do you love to knit and sew
The fashionable world's Arachne ? Or do you canter down the Row
Upon a very long-tailed hackney?
And do you love your brother James ?
And do you write them long long letters ?
All women are-a little spiteful ? And don't you dote on Malibran ?
And don't you think Tom Moore delightful ?
I see they've brought you flowers to-day;
Delicious food for eyes and noses ; But carelessly you turn away
From all the pinks, and all the roses;
Say, is that fond look sent in search
Of one whose look as fondly answers ? And is he, fairest, in the Church ?
Or is he-ain't he—in the Lancers ?
And is your love a motley page
Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow ? Are you to wait till you’re of age ?
Or are you to be his to-morrow? Or do they bid you, in their scorn,
Your pure and sinless flame to smother? Is he so very meanly born ?
Or are you married to another ?
Whate'er you are, at last, adieu!
I think it is your bounden duty To let the rhymes I coin for you
Be prized by all who prize your beauty. From you I seek nor gold nor fame; .
From you I fear no cruel strictures; I wish some girls that I could name Were half as silent as their pictures!
THE COUNTY BALL
Busy people, great and small,
This is a night of pleasure! Care,
Over that guarded barrier flies
The Moon hath risen. Still and pale Thou movest in thy silver veil, Queen of the night! the filmy shroud Of many a mild transparent cloud Hides, yet adorns thee; meet disguise To shield thy blush from mortal eyes. Full many a maid hath loved to gaze Upon thy melancholy rays; And many a fond despairing youth Hath breathed to thee his tale of truth; And many a luckless rhyming wight Hath looked upon thy tender light, And spilt his precious ink upon it,
In ode, or elegy, or sonnet.
But this is foolish! Stars and Moon,