Poem by Thomas Parnell

* * *

A Beavy of the fair & Gay,
Such as are daily Smoakt in tea,
& toasted over wine,
Vext to be made so long the Jeast
Of tongues & pens, to go in quest
Of reputation Joyn.
To K---d's house they first repair,
But scarce find any footsteps there,
to keep them off cold scent;
Long had she fled his slavery,
Her gallants stabbd him first, & she
Woud bury him in paint.
To O---y's they next advance,
But he was vanishd on a glance
to Make some conquest shott;
One who so many loves as she,
& one who loves fooles company,
Must love for you know what.
Of T---n newes in vain they sought,
Scarce M---ws covets to be thought
So ignorant in dressing;
For scandall had like Cr---fts appeard,
He urgd his suit, the God retird,
& left the Nymph unlacing.
No longer on your search remain,
For since your labour must be vain,
What need you make it long:
Believe me fairs, that every one
preserves him for her self alone,
Upon her proper tongue.

1. When Ore My Temples Balmy Vapours Rise
2. On Content
3. On the Death of Mr. Viner
4. My Days Have Been So Wondrous Free
5. Martial

Print

1169 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version