WHY, Madam, must I tell this idle tale? You want to laugh. Then do so, if you will. Thus take it, as it was, the best I can; And laugh at me, but not my little man: For he was very good, and clean, and civil, And, though his taste was odd, you own not evil. You know one loves an apple, one an onion; One man's a Papist, one is a Socinian: We differ in our taste, as in opinion. Not often reason guides us; more, caprice, Or accident, or fancy: so in this. His person pleased, and honest was his fame; 'Tis true there was no music in his name, But, had I changed for @3A@1 the letter @3U@1, It would sound grand, and musically too, And would have made a figure. At my shop I saw him first, and thought he'd eat me up. I stared, and wondered who this man could be, So full of complaisance, and all to me: But when he'd bought his gloves, and said his say, He made his civil scrape, and went away. I never dreamed I e'er should see him more, Glad when he turned his back, and shut the door. But when his wond'rous message he declared, I never in my life was half so scared! Fourscore long miles, to buy a crooked wife! Old too! I thought the oddest thing in life; And said, 'Sir, you're in jest, and very free; But, pray, how came you, Sir, to think of me?' This civil answer I'll suppose was true: 'That he had both our happiness in view. He sought me as one formed to make a friend, To help life glide more smoothly near its end, To aid his virtue, and direct his purse, For he was much too well to want a nurse.' He made no high-flown compliment but this: 'He thought to've found my person more amiss. No fortune hoped; and,' which is stranger yet, 'Expected to have bought me off in debt! And offered me my @3Wish@1, which he had read, For 'twas my @3Wish@1 that put me in his head.' Far distant from my thoughts a husband, when Those simple lines dropped, honest, from my pen! Much more, he spake, but I have half forgot: I went to bed, but could not sleep a jot. A thing so unexpected, and so new! Of so great consequence -- So generous too! I own it made me pause for half that night: Then waked, and soon recovered from my fright; Resolved, and put an end to the affair: So great a change, thus late, I could not bear; And answered thus: 'No, good Sir, for my life, I cannot now obey, nor be a wife. At fifty-four, when hoary age has shed Its winter's snow, and whitened o'er my head, Love is a language foreign to my tongue: I could have learned it once, when I was young, But now quite other things my wish employs: Peace, liberty, and sun, to gild my days. I dare not put to sea so near my home, Nor want a gale to waft me to my tomb. The smoke of Hymen's lamp may cloud the skies, And adverse winds from different quarters rise. I want no heaps of gold; I hate all dress, And equipage. The cow provides my mess. 'Tis true, a chariot's a convenient thing; But then perhaps, Sir, you may hold the string. I'd rather walk alone my own slow pace, Than drive with six, unless I choose the place. Imprisoned in a coach, I should repine: The chaise I hire, I drive and call it mine. And, when I will, I ramble, or retire To my own room, own bed, my garden, fire; Take up my book, or trifle with my pen; And, when I'm weary, lay them down again: No questions asked; no master in the spleen -- I would not change my state to be a queen. Your great estate would nothing add to me, But care, and toil, and loss of liberty. Your offer does me honour, I confess; And, in your next, I wish you more success.' And thus this whole affair begins and ends: We met as lovers, and we parted friends. |