Song
How blest has my time been, what days have I known,
Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessie my own!
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain,
That freedom is tasteless and roving a pain.
Through walks, grown with woodbines, as often we stray,
Around us our girls and boys frolic and play,
How pleasing their sport is, the wanton ones see,
And borrow their looks from my Jessie and me.
To try her sweet temper sometimes am I seen
In revels all day with the nymphs of the green;
Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles,
And meets me at night with compliance and smiles.
What though on her cheek the rose loses its hue,
Her ease and good humour bloom all the year through,
Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth,
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare,
And cheat with false vows the too credulous fair,
In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam,
To hold it for life, you must find it at home.
—Edward Moore
On a Fan that Belonged to the
Marquise de Pompadour
Chicken-skin, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,
Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty frou-frou!
Picture above if you can,
Eyes that could melt as the dew—
This was the Pompadour's fan!
See how they rise at the sight,
Thronging the OEil de Boeuf through,
Courtiers as butterflies bright,
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke,—to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue,—
This was the Pompadour's fan!
Ah! but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez vous!
Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do;
Things that, maybe, overthrew
Those in whose brains they began;
Here was the sign and the cue,—
This was the Pompadour's fan!
Envoy.
Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan?
—But where is the Pompadour, too?
This was the Pompadour's Fan!
—Austin Dobson