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| OFT you have ask’d me, Granville, why | |
| Of late I heave the frequent sigh? | |
| Why, moping, melancholy, low, | |
| From supper, commons, wine, I go? | |
| Why bows my mind, by care oppress’d; | 5 |
| By day no peace, by night no rest? | |
| Hear, then, my friend, and ne’er you knew | |
| A tale so tender, and so true— | |
| Hear what, tho’ shame my tongue restrain | |
| My pen with freedom shall explain. | 10 |
| Say, Granville, do you not remember, | |
| About the middle of November, | |
| When Blenheim’s hospitable lord | |
| Received us at his cheerful board; | |
| How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled, | 15 |
| Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild? | |
| And mark’d you not, how many a glance | |
| Across the table, shot by chance | |
| From fair Eliza’s graceful form, | |
| Assail’d and took my heart by storm? | 20 |
| And mark’d you not, with earnest zeal, | |
| I ask’d her, if she’d have some veal? | |
| And how, when conversation’s charms | |
| Fresh vigour gave to love’s alarms, | |
| My heart was scorch’d, and burnt to tinder, | 25 |
| When talking to her at the winder? | |
| These facts premised, you can’t but guess | |
| The cause of my uneasiness, | |
| For you have heard, as well as I, | |
| That she’ll be married speedily; | 30 |
| And then—my grief more plain to tell— | |
| Soft cares, sweet tears, fond hopes,—farewell! | |
| But still, tho’ false the fleeting dream, | |
| Indulge awhile the tender theme, | |
| And hear, had fortune yet been kind, | 35 |
| How bright the prospect of the mind. | |
| O! had I had it in my power | |
| To wed her—with a suited dower— | |
| And proudly bear the beauteous maid | |
| To Saltrum’s venerable shade,— | 40 |
| Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum, | |
| Why, nothing easier then to alter ’em,— | |
| Then had I tasted bliss sincere, | |
| And happy been from year to year. | |
| How changed this scene! for now, my Granville, | 45 |
| Another match is on the anvil, | |
| And I, a widow’d dove, complain, | |
| And feel no refuge from my pain— | |
| Save that of pitying Spencer’s sister, | |
| Who’s lost a lord, and gained a Mister. | 50 |
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