Lord! if he had some people’s ills
To cope—their hungry bonds and bills,
How faintly they would tease;
Things that have cost both tears and sighs—
Their foes, as motelings in his eyes—
Their duns, his summer fleas!
The stage, I guess, is not thy school—
Thou dost not antic like the fool
That wept behind his mask;
Thy playing is thy play—a sport—
A revel, as perform’d at Court,
And not a trade—a task!
Gay Freeman, art thou hired for him?
No—‘tis thy humour and thy whim
To be that easy guest;
Whereas whoever plays for pelf,
(Like Bennett) only gives him-self,
Or her—like Mrs. West!
Nay, thou—to look beyond the stage,
Thy life is but another page
Continued of the play;
The same companionable sprite—
Thy whim and pleasantry by night
Are with thee in the day!
LOVE, WITH A WITNESS.
E has shav’d off his whiskers and blacken’d his brows,
Wears a patch and a wig of false hair,—
But it’s him—Oh it’s him!—we exchanged lovers’ vows,
When I lived up in Cavendish Square.
He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same,
And his voice was as soft as a flute—
Like a Lord or a Marquis he look’d when he came,
To make love in his master’s best suit.
If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth,
I shall never forget what he told;
How he lov’d me beyond the rich women of earth,
With their jewels and silver and gold?