Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast
A nose of Roman line,
Will turn up even that in scorn
Of compliments of mine:
She should have seen that I have been
Her sex’s partisan,
And really married all I could—
I’m not a single man!
XI.
’Tis hard to see how others fare,
Whilst I rejected stand,—
Will no one take my arm because
They cannot have my hand?
Miss Parry, that for some would go
A trip to Hindostan,
With me don’t care to mount a stair—
I’m not a single man!
XII.
Some change, of course, should be in force
But, surely, not so much—
There may be hands I may not squeeze
But must I never touch?—
Must I forbear to hand a chair
And not pick up a fan?
But I have been myself picked up—
I’m not a single man!
XIII.
Others may hint a lady’s tint
Is purest red and white—
May say her eyes are like the skies,
So very blue and bright,—
I must not say that she has eyes;
Or if I so began,
I have my fears about my ears,—
I’m not a single man!
XIV.
I must confess I did not guess
A simple marriage vow,
Would make me find all women-kind
Such unkind women now;—
I might be hash’d to death, or smash’d
By Mr. Pickford’s van,
Without, I fear, a single tear.
I’m not a single man!