The Lover: A Ballad

At length, by so much importunity press'd,

Take, C——, at once, the inside of my breast;

This stupid indiff'rence so often you blame,

Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame:

I am not as cold as a virgin in lead,

Nor is Sunday's sermon so strong in my head:

I know but too well how time flies along,

That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.

But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy

Long years of repentance for moments of joy,

Oh! was there a man (but where shall I find

Good sense and good nature so equally join'd?)

Would value his pleasure, contribute to mine;

Not meanly would boast, nor would lewdly design;

Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain,

For I would have the power, tho' not give the pain.

No pedant, yet learned; no rake-helly gay,

Or laughing, because he has nothing to say;

To all my whole sex obliging and free,

Yet never be fond of any but me;

In public preserve the decorum that's just,

And shew in his eyes he is true to his trust;

Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,

But not fulsomely pert, nor yet foppishly low.

But when the long hours of public are past,

And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last,

May ev'ry fond pleasure that moment endear;

Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear!

Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd,

He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud.

Till lost in the joy, we confess that we live,

And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive.

And that my delight may be solidly fix'd,

Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd;

In whose tender bosom my soul may confide,

Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide.

From such a dear lover as here I describe,

No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe;

But till this astonishing creature I know,

As I long have liv'd chaste, I will keep myself so.

I never will share with the wanton coquette,

Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit.

The toasters and songsters may try all their art,

But never shall enter the pass of my heart.

I loath the lewd rake, the dress'd fopling despise:

Before such pursuers the nice virgin flies:

And as Ovid has sweetly in parable told,

We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold.