A Coquette.

I said, friend, and I told thee all,1
                        
                        My heart is but a house of call2
                        
                        For every pretty face ;3
                        
                        But then I quite forgot to say,4
                        
                        One lady-guest refused to pay5
                        
                        Her bill, or leave the place.6
                        For she can nothing better choose7
                        
                        Than still be asked, and still refuse,8
                        
                        She’s such a sad coquette ;9
                        
                        And then, alas !  I nothing know10
                        
                        So sweet, as swearing I must go,11
                        
                        And lingering by her yet.12
                        Her mind and body match her life :13
                        
                        She’s grave enough for Tymon’s wife,14
                        
                        Yet gay enough for me.15
                        
                        She’s neither in her youth nor prime,16
                        
                        She’s old enough for  ‘ Father Time,’17
                        
                        Yet young enough for thee.18
                        Two bright eyes peep above her fan,19
                        
                        Like urchins that have tricked a man,20
                        
                        And watch him o’er a wall ;21
                        
                        One hand, she says, has ta’en to swell22
                        
                        But which one ’tis, I cannot tell,23
                        
                        They’re both so very small.24
                        Her cheek has all the rose’s wealth25
                        
                        But ’t cannot be the flush of health,26
                        
                        She’s out so late o’ night ;27
                        
                        Her very sins make such array,28
                        
                        One blush ha’n’t time to get away.29
                        
                        Before the next’s in sight.30
                        There are two lines upon her brow,31
                        
                        That were not graven by the plough32
                        
                        Of either time or care,33
                        
                        But little fairy cart-ruts be34
                        
                        Of Queen Mab’s chariot, where she35
                        
                        Is ever driving there.36
                        Her teeth are alabaster white :37
                        
                        Yet somehow, they’re, not quite aright,38
                        
                        But seem to lean and stare ;39
                        
                        Though then ’tis done with such a grace,40
                        
                        You’d think she’d laughed them out of place,41
                        
                        They’ve such a jaunty air.42
                        Her bosom’s neither flushed nor white,43
                        
                        But has an ever-varying light,44
                        
                        As though it were in doubt ; 45
                        
                        But when it heaves, it heaves as though46
                        
                        A thousand little loves below47
                        
                        Were trying to get out !48
                        But, ah me !  she’s a heart of stone,49
                        
                        That Cupid uses for a hone,50
                        
                        I verily believe,51
                        
                        And on it sharpens those eye-darts52
                        
                        With which he wounds the simple hearts53
                        
                        He’s bribed her to deceive.54
                        Admired of all, approving none,55
                        
                        But sought by those that, wise men shun,56
                        
                        Such is this lady fine,57
                        
                        That, faith !  if I the truth must tell,58
                        
                        Dear friend, although I wish thee well,59
                        
                        I’d rather yours than mine.60