Classic Poem

For love no time has she, or inclination,
Yet must coquet it for the sake of fashion;
For this she listens to each fop that's near,
Th' embroidered colonel flatters with a sneer,
And the cropped ensign nuzzles in her ear.
But with most warmth her dress and airs inspire
Th' ambtious bosom of the landed Squire,
Who fain would quit plump Dolly's softer charms
For withered lean Right Honourable arms;
He bows with reverence at her sacred shrine,
And treats her as if sprung from race divine,
Which she returns with insolence and scorn,
Nor deigns to smile on a plebeian born.
Ere long by friends, by cards, and lovers crossed,
Her fortune, health, and reputation lost;
Her money gone, yet not a tradesman paid,
Her fame, yet she still damned to be a maid,
Her spirits sink, her nerves are so unstrung,
She weeps, if but a handsome thief is hung:
By mercers, lacemen, mantua-makers pressed,
But most for ready cash for play distressed,
Where can she turn?--The Squire must all repair,
She condescends to listen to his pray'r,
And marries him at length in mere despair.
But soon th'endearments of a husband cloy,
Her soul, her frame incapable of joy:
She feels no transport in the bridal-bed,
Of which so oft sh' has heard, so much has read;
Then vexed, that she should be condemned alone
To seek in vain this philosophic stone,
To abler tutors she resolves t'apply,
A prostitute from curiosity:
Hence men of ev'ry sort, and ev'ry size,
Impatient for heav'n's cordial drop, she tries;
The fribbling beau, the rough unwieldy clown,
The ruddy templar newly on the town,
Th'Hibernian captain of gigantic make,
The brimful parson, and th'exhausted rake.
But still malignant fate her wish denies,
Cards yield superior joys, to cards she flies,
All night from rout to rout her chairmen run,
Again she plays, and is again undone.