Poem by Mary Wortley Montagu

Song - Rondeau

Finish these langours! Oh! I'm sick
Of dying airs, I know the trick;
Long since I've learn'd to well explain
Th'unmeaning cant of fire and pain,
And see through all the senseless lies
Of burning darts from killing eyes;
I'm tir'd with this continual rout
Of bowing low and leading out.
Finish, &c.
Finish this tedious dangling trade,
By which so many fools are made;
For fools they are, whom you can please
By such affected airs as these:
At opera near my box to stand,
And slyly press the given hand,
Thus may you wait whole years in vain;
But sure you would, were you in pain.

1. Ballad, on a Late Occurrence
2. Impromptu, to a Young Lady Singing
3. Epistle from Arthur Grey, the Footman, to Mrs. Murray, after His Condemnation for Attempting to Comm
4. Town Eclogues: Wednesday; the Tête à Tête
5. Town Eclogues: Thursday; the Bassette-Table

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