| |
| I, WHO was late so volatile and gay, | |
| Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way, | |
| Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows, | |
| To one dull rusty weathercock—my spouse! | |
| So wills our virtuous bard—the motley Bayes | 5 |
| Of crying epilogues and laughing plays! | |
| Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives, | |
| Learn from our play to regulate your lives: | |
| Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her— | |
| London will prove the very source of honour. | 10 |
| Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves, | |
| When principles relax, to brace the nerves: | |
| Such is my case; and yet I must deplore | |
| That the gay dream of dissipation ’s o’er. | |
| And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife, | 15 |
| Born with a genius for the highest life, | |
| Like me untimely blasted in her bloom, | |
| Like me condemn’d to such a dismal doom? | |
| Save money—when I just knew how to waste it! | |
| Leave London—just as I began to taste it! | 20 |
| Must I then watch the early crowing cock, | |
| The melancholy ticking of a clock; | |
| In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded, | |
| With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded? | |
| With humble curate can I now retire. | 25 |
| (While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire) | |
| And at backgammon mortify my soul, | |
| That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole? | |
| Seven’s the main! Dear sound that must expire, | |
| Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire; | 30 |
| The transient hour of fashion too soon spent, | |
| Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content! | |
| Farewell the plumèd head, the cushioned tête, | |
| That takes the cushion from its proper seat! | |
| That spirit—stirring drum!—card drums I mean, | 35 |
| Spadille—odd trick—pam-basto—king and queen! | |
| And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat, | |
| The welcome visitors’ approach denote; | |
| Farewell all quality of high renown, | |
| Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town! | 40 |
| Farewell! your revels I partake no more, | |
| And Lady Teazle’s occupation ’s o’er! | |
| All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said ’twas clear, | |
| I ought to play deep tragedy next year. | |
| Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play, | 45 |
| And in these solemn periods stalked away:— | |
| “Blessed were the fair like you; her faults who stopped | |
| And closed her follies when the curtain dropped! | |
| No more in vice or error to engage, | |
| Or play the fool at large on life’s great stage.” | 50 |
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