The Dance
Take the name of the swain, a forlorn witless elfWho was chang'd to a flow'r for admiring himself.A part deem'd essential in each lady's dressWith what maidens cry when they wish to say yes.A lullabye carriage, soft, cozy and lightWith the name of the Poet who sang on the night.
The queen of Cairo, all lovely and winningWhose blandishments ever kept Antony grinning.The flow'r whose odors unremittingly please:With the glory of forests, the king of the trees.To the prince of the fairies, a jealous old knave,Put the name of the tree that undid Mother Eve.To finish the whole, add that period of dayWhen the linnet and thrush to repose hie away.
The initials of these, if adjusted with care.Will show you the fairest where thousands are fair.The sweet, pretty graces still hover about herAnd Cupid would die with vexation without her.When she swims in the dance or wherever she goesShe's crowded by witlings, plain-fellows, and beauxWho throng at her elbow and tread on her toes.
If a pin or a hankerchief happen to fallTo seize on the prise fills with uproar the ball;Such pulling and hawling & shoving & pushingAs rivals the racket of 'key and the cushion;'And happy- thrice happy! too happy! the swainWho can replace the pin or bandana again.
Tho the fellows surround & so humbly adore herThe girls on the contrary cannot endure her;Her beauty their beauty forever disgracesAnd her sweeter face still eclipses their faces-For no lov'ly girl can a lov'ly girl bearAnd fair ones are ever at war with the fair.
(Nancy Crooke)
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