Why will Delia thus retire,
And idly languish life away?
While the sighing crowd admire,
’Tis too soon for hartshorn tea:
All those dismal looks and fretting
Cannot Damon’s life restore;
Long ago the worms have eat him,
You can never see him more.
Once again consult your toilette,
In the glass your face review:
So much weeping soon will spoil it,
And no spring your charms renew.
I, like you, was born a woman,
Well I know what vapors mean:
The disease, alas! is common;
Single, we have all the spleen.
All the morals that they tell us,
Never cured the sorrow yet:
Chuse, among the pretty fellows,
One of honor, youth, and wit.
Prithee hear him every morning
At least an hour or two;
Once again at night returning—
I believe the dose will do.