YEAR, most propitious, to our earthly leaven! The eighteenth century, and twenty-seven! For ever, may, thy fame be kept, in mind, By all the vot'ries of that urchin, blind, Whose barbed darts, promiscuously, bold, Without distinction, pierce the young, and old: In ev'ry class, his trade is sure to thrive, And witless fifteen weds with ninety-five!
Long had, together, pac'd Brighthelmstone's sands- Long talk'd of love, and Hymen's silken bands-
Long trod the streets-long scour'd the dusty roads, From Town, to Brighton-eyed those blest abodes, Where Florizel enjoy'd Perditta's charms, And fat, fair, forty sunk, in George's arms :- Long, Harriet, wistful view'd the ducal crown, Long, practis'd smiles displac'd her temper's frown- Long, Beauclerc sigh'd for Coutts' exhaustless bag, Deplor'd its price;-yet would not lose the swag.
Again, a respite, to that fatal day,
When she, her cash, and he, his fame, must pay. The sighing dolts, once more, their wits, apply, To chace their fears-and, once more, travel try. Their gaudy trains, now, hasten to set forth,. From murky London, to the keener North
Attract all eyes, in ev'ry place they pass,
She, a rich, he, a half-bred ass:.... Doubting, between two hay-stacks, there he stands, Until his feet exclaim, pray, help us, hands!is
O'er England's borders, onward, still they tour 'Tis pleasant trav'ling, in a chaise and four, With money, plenty-all the world attends- All strive to grace their list of honor'd friends
The "March of Intellect" brooks no control- She "feast of reason," and he "flow of soul" From John o'Groat's, to the Land's End they fly- The Scots aw boo-John Bull's in ecstacy. "Sure, such a pair," till now," was never seen," So form'd, by nature's self, to meet, I ween.c
Addresses, may, from Corporations, come, Invites, and dinners want us, next, " at home."
Before we part, exclaims the fair, decide,
To take me, to thy bed, a blooming bride.
What! Hesitate, Automaton?.. I say,icilisi Marry thou shalt, or, on the low'ring day, In June, thou promised'st, my Coutts, to pay de D-n me, the mortgage, if I don't foreclose, And give, to all the Beauclerc's, such a dose Thou, and thy bare-breech'd brethren, shall deplore
Lands, hou ses, incomes, lost, for ever-more
Thy sisters, then, their kindred equals meet, With mutual welcome, houseless, in the street.
Convinc'd-the enamoured swain groan'd, shook his head
'Tis hard but I must have a Wife, for bread........
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