Classic Poem

You bid me write, Sir, I comply,
Since I my grave airs can't deny.
But say, how can my Muse declare
The situation of the fair,
That full six hours had sat, or more,
And never once been out of door?
Tea, wine, and punch, Sir, to be free,
Excellent diuretics be:
I made it so appear, it's true,
When at your house, last night, with you:
Blushing, I own, to you I said,
‘I should be glad you'd call a maid.’
‘The girls,’ you answered, ‘are from home,
Nor can I guess when they'll return.’
Then in contempt you came to me,
And sneering cried, ‘Dear Miss, make free;
Let me conduct you—don't be nice—
Or if a basin is your choice,
To fetch you one I'll instant fly.’
I blushed, but could not make reply;
Confused to find myself the joke,
I silent sat till Trueworth spoke:
‘To go with me, Miss, don't refuse,
Your loss the freedom will excuse.’
To him my hand reluctant gave,
And out he led me very grave;
Whilst you and Chatfree laughed aloud,
As if to dash a maid seemed proud.
But I the silly jest despise,
Since well I know each man that's wise
All affectation does disdain,
Since it in prudes and coxcombs reign:
So I repent not what I've done:
Adieu—enjoy your empty fun.