Classic Poem

Since love and verse, as well as wine,
Are brisker where the sun doth shine,
'Tis something to lose two degrees
Now age itself begins to freeze;
Yet this I patiently could bear
If the rough Danube's beauties were
But only two degrees less fair
Than the kind nymphs of gentle Thames,
Who warm me hither with their beams:
Such power they have they can dispense
Five hundred miles their influence.
But hunger forces men to eat,
Though no temptation's in the meat.
How would the ogling sparks despise
The darling damsel of my eyes,
Did they behold her at a play,
As she's tricked up on holiday,
When the whole family combine
For public pride to make her shine.
Her hair which long before lay matted
Are on this day combed out and platted,
A diamond bodkin in each tress
The badges of her nobleness;
For every stone as well as she
Can boast an ancient pedigree.
These formed the jewel erst did grace
The cap of the first Graf of the race,
Now preferred by Grafen Marian
T'adorn the handle of her fan,
And as by old records appears
Worn since in Kunigunda's ears,
Now sparkling in the fraulein's hair:
No serpent breaking in the air
Can with her starry head compare.
Such ropes of pearls her hands encumber,
She scarce can deal the cards at ombre;
So many rings each finger freight,
They tremble with the mighty weight:
The like in England ne'er was seen
Since Holbein drew Hal and his Queen.
But after these fantastic sights
The luster's meaner than the lights.
She that bears this glittering pomp
Is but a tawdry ill-bred ramp
Whose brawny limbs and martial face
Proclaim her of the Gothic race,
More than the painted pageantry
Of all her father's heraldry.
But there's another sort of creatures
Whose ruddy look and grotesque features
Are so much out of nature's way
You'd think them stamped on other clay,
No lawful daughters of old Adam.
From these behold a city madam,
With arms in mittens, head in muff,
A dapper cloak and reverend ruff;
No farce so pleasant as this malkin,
The pretty jet she has in walking,
And the soft sound of High Dutch talking.
Here unattended by the Graces,
The Queen of Love in a sad case is:
Nature, her active minister,
Neglects affairs and will not stir,
Thinks it not worth her while to please
But when she does it for her ease.
Even I, her most devout adorer,
With wandering thoughts appear before her,
And when I'm making an oblation
Am fain to spur imagination
With some old London inclination.
The bow is bent at German dame,
The arrow flies at English game.
Kindness that can indifference warm,
And blow that calm into a storm,
Has in the very tenderest hour
Over my gentleness no power —
True to my country-women's charms,
Whilst kissed and pressed in foreign arms.