by William Somervile
Who now regards Chloris, her tears, and her whining,
Her sighs, and fond wishes, and aukward repining?
What a pother is here, with her amorous glances,
Soft fragments of Ovid, and scrapes of romances!
An nice prude at fifteen! and a romp in decay!
Cold December affects the sweet blossoms of May;
To fawn in her dotage, and in her bloom spurn us,
Is to quench Love's bright torch, and with touchwood to burn us.
Believe me, dear maids, there's no way of evading;
While ye pish, and cry nay, your roses are fading:
Though your passion survive, your beauty will dwindle,
And our languishing embers can never rekindle.
When bright in your zeniths, we prostrate before ye,
Which ye set in a cloud, what fool will adore ye?
Then, ye fair, be advis'd, and snatch the kind blessing,
And show your good conduct by timely possessing.
Last updated January 14, 2019