Classic Poem

The ladies' faces, now a-days,
Are various as their humours,
And on complexions oft we gaze,
Brought home from the perfumer's.

Hid as it were beneath a cloak,
The beauty's false that wins you,
Then pardon me, by way of joke,
If I prefer my Dingy.

II.

A handkerchief can rub away
Your roses and your lillies;
The more you rub, the more you may,
My Dingy dingy still is.

Besides, her hair is black as jet,
Her eyes are gems from India;
Rail as you list then, I shall yet,
For joke's sake, love poor Dingy.