Among the beaux who fluttered round The gentle Mary, some were found Of that unworthy class, too common, Who speak despitefully of woman, And who, with empty purse and head, For fortune only, woo, and wed; With mind as vacant as the heart, Willing with liberty to part, If in exchange they but obtain The gold to forge dull Hymen’s chain: “For gold,” they swear—(how dainty slip The oaths from each moustachio’d lip!) “With welcome weight can never gall, Nor its bright charms (like Beauty’s) pall!” Among these gems Lord Squander shone, } A flashy—but not precious stone, } His health, his wealth, his feelings gone: } Misguided youth!—a prey to ills Which spring from long-neglected bills; Heir of an old estate, ’twas true— Now doubly mortgaged to the Jew— Compelled the evils to endure Which only can an heiress cure— “It must be so!” he sighs, “and, ’gad! ’Twill make some pretty person glad”— For ruin tries in vain to shake The self-assurance of a rake. O Vanity! ’tis passing strange, That thou, content with little change, The weakest heads wilt always rule, Nor from thy empire spare one fool! Our bold Adonis, passing well Could every widow’s jointure tell,— Knew, certain as by rule of three, What every spinster’s wealth must be. One month, when hard pressed—what a pity!— He turned his thoughts to the vile city; But flattering Fate, with kindly rigour, Denied him the appointed figure— A blessed release! indeed, ’twere shame To wed a miss with vulgar name; Whate’er her gold, if name she lacks, A dweller of St. Mary Axe! Oh, dreadful!—“No, it ne’er could be; Old family and wealth for me! A lovely girl—good manners, too.” So once again he did review The season’s list—and Mary saw, A prize he straight would seek to draw. He dreamed not she could e’er withstand His thousand merits; well he scanned Her thousand acres—the rent-roll Of her papa quite charmed his soul: ’Twas very monstrous that her sire Of life, at fifty, would not tire; Pity, for reasons sound and weighty, They could not push him on to eighty! But still—though not a first-rate catch— } The match would be a decent match, } And just his worn-out fortune patch. } So, filled with his sublime intent, To see and conquer, forth he went!