THUS circumstanced, fair lady, let me, pray; To you at once, my adoration pay; No words my admiration can express; Your charms enslave my senses, I confess; Can you suppose to answer would be wrong? Too much good sense to you should now belong; Had I the leisure, I'd in form disclose The tender flame with which my bosom glows; Each horrid torment; but by Fate denied Blessed opportunities, let me not hide, While moments offer, what pervades my heart, And openly avow the burning smart Few minutes I have got to travel o'er What gen'rally requires six months or more. Cold is that lover who will not pursue, With ev'ry ardour, beauty, when in view. But why this silence?--not a word you say! You surely will not send me thus away! That heav'n, an angel made you, none deny; But still, to what is asked you should reply. Your husband this contrived I plainly see, Who fancies that replies were not to be, Since in our bargain they were never named; For shuffling conduct he was ever famed; But I'll come round him, spite of all his art; I can reply for you, and from the heart, Since I can read your wishes in your eyes; 'Tis thus to say--Good, sir, I would advise That you regard me, not as marble cold; Your various tournaments and actions bold, Your serenades, and gen'ral conduct prove, What tender sentiments your bosom move. YOUR fond affection constantly I praised, And quickly felt a flame within me raised; Yet what avails?--Oh, that I'll soon disclose; Since we agree, allow me to propose, Our mutual wishes we enjoy to-night; And turn to ridicule that jealous Wight; In short, reward him for his wily fear, In watching us so very closely here. Your garden will be quite the thing, I guess; Go thither, pray, and never fear success; Depend upon it, soon his country seat Your spouse will visit:--then the hunks we'll cheat. When plunged in sleep the grave duennas lie, Arise, furred gown put on, and quickly fly; With careful steps you'll to the garden haste; I've got a ladder ready to be placed Against the wall which joins your neighbour's square: I've his permission thither to repair; 'Tis better than the street:--fear naught my dove.-- Ah! dear Magnificent, my fondest love; As you desire, I'll readily proceed; My heart is your's: we fully are agreed. 'T's you who speaks, and, would that in my arms Permission I had got to clasp your charms!