Classic Poem

Methinks the poor town has been troubled too long
With Phyllis and Chloris in every song,
By fools who at once can both love and despair,
And will never leave calling them cruel and fair;
Which justly provokes me in rhyme to express
The truth that I know of bonny Black Bess.

This Bess of my heart, this Bess of my soul,
Has a skin white as milk and hair black as coal;
She 's plump, yet with ease you may span round her waist,
But her round swelling thighs can scarce be embraced:
Her belly is soft, not a word of the rest,
But I know what I think when I drink to the best.

The ploughman and squire, the arranter clown,
At home she subdued in her paragon gown;
But now she adorns the boxes and pit,
And the proudest town-gallants are forced to submit;
All hearts fall a-leaping wherever she comes,
And beat day and night, like my Lord Craven's drums.

I dare not permit her to come to Whitehall,
For she 'd outshine the ladies, paint, jewels, and all;
If a lord should but whisper his love in the crowd,
She 'd sell him a bargain, and laugh out aloud;
Then the Queen, overhearing what Betty did say,
Would send Mr. Roper to take her away.

But to these that have had my dear Bess in their arms,
She 's gentle, and knows how to soften her charms;
And to every beauty can add a new grace,
Having learned how to lisp and to trip in her pace,
And, with head on one side and a languishing eye,
To kill us by looking as if she would die.

Methinks the poor town has been troubled too long
With Phyllis and Chloris in every song,
By fools who at once can both love and despair,
And will never leave calling them cruel and fair;
Which justly provokes me in rhyme to express
The truth that I know of bonny Black Bess.

This Bess of my heart, this Bess of my soul,
Has a skin white as milk and hair black as coal;
She 's plump, yet with ease you may span round her waist,
But her round swelling thighs can scarce be embraced:
Her belly is soft, not a word of the rest,
But I know what I think when I drink to the best.

The ploughman and squire, the arranter clown,
At home she subdued in her paragon gown;
But now she adorns the boxes and pit,
And the proudest town-gallants are forced to submit;
All hearts fall a-leaping wherever she comes,
And beat day and night, like my Lord Craven's drums.

I dare not permit her to come to Whitehall,
For she 'd outshine the ladies, paint, jewels, and all;
If a lord should but whisper his love in the crowd,
She 'd sell him a bargain, and laugh out aloud;
Then the Queen, overhearing what Betty did say,
Would send Mr. Roper to take her away.

But to these that have had my dear Bess in their arms,
She 's gentle, and knows how to soften her charms;
And to every beauty can add a new grace,
Having learned how to lisp and to trip in her pace,
And, with head on one side and a languishing eye,
To kill us by looking as if she would die.