Now you'll see, And agree, I am certain, with me, When a young man's laid up with a wound in his knee: And a Lady sits there, On a rush-bottom'd chair, To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare, And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square; Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair, And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire, It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair, And may lead on to mischief before they're aware. I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his "_Penchant_ for _liaisons_," and graver men "follies," (For my own part, I think planting thorns on their pillows, And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows, Is not to be classed among mere peccadillos,) His "_faults_," I should say--I don't think François Xavier Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviour Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he meant While superintending his draughts and his liniment. But, as he grew stout, And was getting about, Thoughts came into his head that had better been out; While Cupid's an urchin We know deserves birching, He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in. 'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin Was the end of all poor dear Therèse's shampooing.-- 'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on: but such Things will happen--ay, e'en 'mongst the phlegmatic Dutch. "When Woman," as Goldsmith declares, "stoops to folly, And finds out too late that false man can betray," She is apt to look dismal, and grow "melan-choly," And, in short, to be anything rather than gay. He goes on to remark that "to punish her lover, Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye, There is but one method" which he can discover That's likely to answer--that one is "to die!" He's wrong--the wan and withering cheek; The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart; The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak The misery of the breaking heart; The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone That whispering mocks the pitying ear; Th' imploring glances heaven-ward thrown, As heedless, helpless, hopeless here; These wring the false one's heart enough, If "made of penetrable stuff." And poor Therèse Thus pines and decays, Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise, With, for "wheelers," two bays, And, for "leaders," two greys, And soon reaches France, by the help of relays, Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim, And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd him.