Hast thou, my dear, an ample share
Of this world's goods? Wilt thy papa[9]
Disgorge, to gild our blessedness,
A pot of gold?
Some swains for mental graces care;
Some fall a prey to golden hair;
I am not blind, I will confess,
To intellect or comeliness;
Still let these go beside, ma chère,
A pot of gold.
III.
(Rondeau à la Philadelphia.)
A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade!
Whose tresses mock the raven's shade,
Before I free this aching breast,
I want to set my mind at rest;
'Tis best to call a spade a spade.
What was thy father ere he made
His fortune? Was he smeared with trade,
Or does he boast an ancient crest—
A pedigree?
Brains and bright eyes are overweighed,
For wits grow dull and beauties fade;
And riches, though a welcome guest,
Oft jar the matrimonial nest;
I kiss her lips who holds displayed
A pedigree.
IV.
(Rondeau à la Baltimore.)
A pretty face! O maid divine,
Whose vowels flow as soft as wine,
Before I say upon the rack
The words I never can take back,
A moment meet my glance with thine.
Say, art thou fair? Is the incline
Of that sweet nose an aquiline?
Hast thou, despite unkind attack,
A pretty face?
Some sigh for wisdom; Three, not nine,
The Graces were. I won't repine
For want of pedigree, or lack
Of gold to banish Care the black,
If I can call forever mine
A pretty face.