Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/456
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438
The Picture.
Matches are made for many reasons—
For love, convenience, money, fun, and spite!
How many, against common sense, are treasons!
How few the happy pairs who match aright!
In the fair breast of some bewitching dame,
How many a youth will strive fond love to waken,
And when, at length, successful in his aim,
Be first mis-led and afterwards mis-taken!
Then curse his fate, at matrimony swear,
And, like poor Adam, have a rib to spare!
How many ladies—speculating dears!—
Will make six matches in so many years,
So fast, sometimes, the amorous gudgeons bite!
Others, like bungling housemaids in the dark,
Will fret and fume, and lose full many a spark,
And never, never get a match to light,
Nor think their want of skill the job could hinder,
But lay the fault upon the plaguy tinder.
Old men young women wed—by way of nurses;
Young men old women—just to fill their purses;
Nor young men only—for 'tis my belief
(Nor do I think the metaphor a bold one),
When folks in life turn over a new leaf,
Why very few would grumble at a gold one!
For love, convenience, money, fun, and spite!
How many, against common sense, are treasons!
How few the happy pairs who match aright!
In the fair breast of some bewitching dame,
How many a youth will strive fond love to waken,
And when, at length, successful in his aim,
Be first mis-led and afterwards mis-taken!
Then curse his fate, at matrimony swear,
And, like poor Adam, have a rib to spare!
How many ladies—speculating dears!—
Will make six matches in so many years,
So fast, sometimes, the amorous gudgeons bite!
Others, like bungling housemaids in the dark,
Will fret and fume, and lose full many a spark,
And never, never get a match to light,
Nor think their want of skill the job could hinder,
But lay the fault upon the plaguy tinder.
Old men young women wed—by way of nurses;
Young men old women—just to fill their purses;
Nor young men only—for 'tis my belief
(Nor do I think the metaphor a bold one),
When folks in life turn over a new leaf,
Why very few would grumble at a gold one!
But tell me, Muse, what charm it was could tickle
The once invincible Sir Peter Pickle!
Was it her eyes—that so attached to one day,
Looked piously seven different ways for Sunday?
Was it her hump, that had a camel suited?
Her left leg, bandy?—or her right, club-footed?
Or nose, in shape so like a liquor funnel?
Or mouth, whose width might shame the Highgate tunnel?
The once invincible Sir Peter Pickle!
Was it her eyes—that so attached to one day,
Looked piously seven different ways for Sunday?
Was it her hump, that had a camel suited?
Her left leg, bandy?—or her right, club-footed?
Or nose, in shape so like a liquor funnel?
Or mouth, whose width might shame the Highgate tunnel?