Classic Poem

Dear Ma'am your distress
So well you express,
And at once are so doleful and witty,
That you've soften'd my Muse,
And she cannot refuse
Some scanty proportion of pity.

A Spinster like you,
Behold! I am too!
And sixty good years I have reckon'd;
A lover I lost,
My affections engross'd—
I never admitted a second!

Young, handsome and gay,
Fate snatch'd him away,
And forbade me his lot to partake;
I cou'd find no relief,
So I hid all my grief,
And shall die an Old Maid for his sake!

'Tis my glory—my choice!
And I daily rejoice
There's no mortal my steps to controul;
To the young and the gay
An indulgence I pay,
And sickness and grief I console.

I love not to handle
The weapons of scandal—
My converse is harmless, I'm sure;
And all you cou'd see,
Which betrays I am free,
Is a look that's a little demure!

You may think it is strange,
That I wish not to change,
And to wear the desirable fetters;
Those respectable chains,
Which Marriage ordains,
And so gracefully set on our betters.

The truth is, dear Madam,
Those chains—if you had 'em,
Had prov'd but the plague of your life;
And much I'm afraid,
That the peevish Old Maid
Had prov'd but a splenetic Wife.

To finish my letter—
Most surely 'tis better
To go to the grave as we are,
Than be join'd to a mate,
(Oh deplorable state!)
Who privately wishes one there!