Christopher Anstey Poems
A young Lady of neither Fashion, Taste, nor Spirit.
Oft I've invok'd th' Aönian quire,
And Phoebus oft in vain,
Like thee, my friend, to tune my lyre,
Like thee to raise my strain:
And when of late I sought their aid
The flow'ry bank beside,
Methought, along the silent glade,
I heard a voice that cry'd,
``Mistaken maid! why idly waste
``Your hours in fruitless toil?
``You ne'er the hallow'd brook can taste,
``Or tread poetic soil:
``For since your friend pursues the path
``Where wit and pleasure reigns,
``With her has fled each Muse ...
An Election Ball,
--And so, as I told thee before, my dear wife,
I'll go to the ball tho' it cost me my life--
--Must I be shut up, till, like poor neighbour Snarler,
I be smok'd like a joss in mine own little parlour?
No--I'd have thee to know I can walk pretty stout,
Since I've found an infallible cure for the gout,
For the doctor I've tried has, with wedges and pegs,
So stretch'd out my sinews, and hammer'd my legs,
So suppled the joint, by tormenting the tendon,