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 ate 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 vapours mean:
The disease, alas! is common;
Single, we have all the spleen.
All the morals that they tell us,
Never cured the sorrow yet:
Choose, 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.