To Lydia

When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, But now grown cold and supercilious) Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms-- Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious! Then with despite my cheeks wax white, My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, My eyes o'erflow with tears which show That passion melts my vitals, Liddy! Deny, false jade, your escapade, And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! No manly spark left such a mark-- Leastwise he surely was no poet! With savage buss did Telephus Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow; As you would save what Venus gave, I charge you shun that awkward fellow! And now I say thrice happy they That call on Hymen to requite 'em; For, though love cools, the wedded fools Must cleave till death doth disunite 'em.