'Tis nice, with your head on his shoulder,
To whirl through the waltz with Frank Lowe,
But should poor Adonis grow bolder,
My own Angelina, say "No!"
You know without wealth and a carriage
Life's just a prolonged fit of spleen,
So don't let me mourn o'er your marriage
With any poor Brown, Jones, or Green.
You swore mere romance should not thrill you,
Nor gold-less good looks make you glow;