But to hail the pearly advent of morn, And relish the odour fresh from the thorn, She was far too pamper’d a madam, Or to joy in the daylight waxing strong, While, after ages of sorrow and wrong, The scorn of the proud, the misrule of the strong, And all the woes that to man belong, The Lark still carols the self-same song That he did to the uncurst Adam! The Lark! she had given all Leipsic’s flocks For a Vauxhall tune in a musical box; And as for the birds in the thicket, Thrush or ousel in leafy niche, The linnet or finch, she was far too rich To care for a Morning Concert, to which She was welcome without any ticket. Gold, still gold, her standard of old, All pastoral joys were tried by gold, Or by fancies golden and crural-- Till ere she had pass’d one week unblest, As her agricultural Uncle’s guest, Her mind was made up, and fully imprest, That felicity could not be rural! And the Count?--to the snow-white lambs at play And all the scents and the sights of May, And the birds that warbled their passion, His ears and dark eyes, and decided nose, Were as deaf and as blind and as dull as those That overlooked the Bouquet de Rose, The Huille Antique, And Parfum Unique, In a Barber’s Temple of Fashion. To tell, indeed, the true extent Of his rural bias so far it went As to covet estates in ring fences-- And for rural lore he had learn’d in town That the country was green, turn’d up with brown, And garnish’d with trees that a man might cut down Instead of his own expenses. And yet had that fault been his only one, The Pair might have had few quarrels or none, For their tastes thus far were in common; But faults he had that a haughty bride With a Golden Leg could hardly abide-- Faults that would even have roused the pride Of a far less metalsome woman! It was early days indeed for a wife, In the very spring of her married life, To be chill’d by its wintry weather-- But instead of sitting as Love-Birds do, On Hymen’s turtles that bill and coo-- Enjoying their “moon and honey for two” They were scarcely seen together! In vain she sat with her Precious Leg A little exposed, _à la_ Kilmansegg, And roll’d her eyes in their sockets! He left her in spite of her tender regards, And those loving murmurs described by bards, For the rattling of dice and the shuffling of cards, And the poking of balls into pockets! Moreover he loved the deepest stake And the heaviest bets the players would make; And he drank--the reverse of sparely,-- And he used strange curses that made her fret; And when he played with herself at piquet, She found, to her cost, For she always lost, That the Count did not count quite fairly.