POETICAL LOVE-LETTER.
(For the Mirror.)
The sweeper of New Haven College, in New England, lately becoming a widower, conceived a violent passion for the relict of his deceased Cambridge brother, which he expressed in the following strain:—
Mistress A—y.
To you I fly,
You only can relieve me;
To you I turn,
For you I burn,
If you will but believe me.
Then, gentle dame,
Admit my flame,
And grant me my petition:
If you deny,
Alas! I die
In pitiful condition.
Before the news
Of your poor spouse
Had reached our New Haven,
My dear wife died,
Who was my bride,
In anno eighty-seven.
Then being free,
Let's both agree
To join our hands—for I do
Boldly aver
A widower
Is fittest for a widow.
You may be sure
'Tis not your dow'r
I make this flowing version;
In those smooth lays
I only praise
The glories of your person.
For the whole that
Was left to Mat,
Fortune to me has granted
In equal store,
Nay, I have more.
What Mathew always wanted.
No teeth, 'tis true,
You have to shew;
The young think teeth inviting—
But, silly youths,
I love those mouths
Where there's no fear of biting.
A leaky eye,
That's never dry,
These woeful times is fitting;
A wrinkled face
Adds solemn grace
To folks devout at meeting.
A furrow'd brow,
Where corn might grow,
Such fertile soil is seen in't,
A long hook nose,
Though scorn'd by foes,
For spectacles convenient.
Thus to go on,
I could pen down
Your charms from head to foot—
Set all your glory
In verse before you,
But I've no mind to do't.
Then haste away,
And make no stay,
For soon as you come hither
We'll eat and sleep,
Make beds and sweep,
And talk and smoke together.
But if, my dear,
I must come there,
Tow'rd Cambridge strait I'll set me,
To touze the hay
On which you lay,
If, madam, you will let me.