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Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)

The Damosel


SInce Women are still,
By-pretenders to skill,
Suppos'd to be sway'd by their will,
And not by their judgment nor reason,
Then it shall be mine,
To uphold the design,
In spite of the hits
Of the fellows call'd Wits,
That jeer every thing that's in season.


Though youthful I be,
And buxome to see,
And suppos'd to be frolick and free,
And ripe for the thing you wot on,
I'll not sacrific'd be
To the Ginger-bread he,
Whose cloathes are in print
And his hair has butter in't
And his fancies and whimseys has got on.


For the Youth in their bud,
That do sail in the sloud,
Of their active and flaming bloud,
Like furious undertakers;
Are fiery at first,
But have soon done their worst,
Then they shrink their heads in,
And care not a pin
For the sport, nor yet the sport-makers.


But give me that he
That is threescore and three
And can neither hear, smell, or see,
He will serve well enough for a cover;
He will tickle, and touch,
Though his strength be not much,
He can't do, but desire,
And that kindles his fire,
While he fathers the sports of a lover.


O the tooth without peers!
And the silver hairs!
And the gouts, and the coughs of old years!
I would have such an one for the nonce;
I can Chronicles find,
In his limbs, and his mind,
While his face tells the story
Of memento mori,
With an Almanack in his bones.

Alexander Brome's other poems:
  1. The Cavalier
  2. The Hard Heart
  3. The Reformation
  4. The Libertine
  5. The Prodigal

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