Dear Miss, not with a Lie to cheat ye,
I love you so that I could eat ye.
'Tis not that Gold that does adorn
Your Bosom like the rising Morn,
When dropping dry from watry Bed
Sol shakes his Carrot-Loggerhead:
'Tis not your Gold I mean to wooe;
Alas, 'tis You, and only You.
'Tis not that Coronet which does shine
With Beams not half so bright as thine,
Which scatter Glories that excell
The Nose of Zara's Dowzabel.
'Tis not the Rose of lip-like hiew,
Nor Virgin-Plumb's Celestial blew,
Nor all the Nuts that plunder'd be
From the sad Squirrel's Granarie;
Nor Pears long cramm'd in faithful store,
As yellow as the Golden-Ore;
Nor Crumpling sweet, with Cheeks divine,
Yet not so fair, my Dear, as thine;
Nor Custards stuck with Plumbs and Flies,
Nor Heart-reviving Pudding-Pyes,
Tho' queasie Stomach's them contemn,
Bake't on thyn 'own dear Granny's Wemm.

Ah! 'tis not, 'tis not this, nor all
The Goods in Cellar, Pouch or Stall,
Which Apple-Woman does provide
For such as make her Child their Bride:
King Harry Groats with Rust o're-grown,
And Edward Shillings more than one;
I'l say't, my Love, and say't again,
'Twas none of these that caus'd my pain:
'Twas first thy goggling, Egg-like Eyes,
Like those in Mahomet's Paradice,
Which did my Jack-with-a-Lanthorns prove,
And mir'd me up to th' Ears in Love.
Then all thy Dotes came powdring in,
Thy Mother's manly Nose and Chin,
Thy Nose which (not thy Faces Friend)
Keeps a poor Lover at Arm's end;
Thy Chin which with kind Curl doth grace
Thy n'own dear Father's Wainscot Face;
A Mouth which should with Mopsa's vye,
Altho' Pamela's self stood by;
Lips which like Paris Casements shew,
Still opening with a Guarda vou'z;
There Caravans of Spices meet,
Not Western Civet half so sweet,
Nor mellow Ducks in Claret stew'd,
When Atoms were in Altitude.
But not to stay on every Charm,
In Jar-like Leg, and May-pole Arm;
Nor how my Conquress did prevail,
And wound with every Tooth and Nail:
Ah! 'twas, as too-too well you know,
Your Hand that struck the mortal blow.

That Mutton-fist, like Bolt of Thunder,
Poor Lover fell'd as flat's a Flounder.
Under a Willow I complain,
And grunt, and cry, and roar in vain;
And, as mad Lovers use to do,
Pick straws, and - what a F-- care you?
From side to side I loll about,
Idle, ungainly, lazy Lout,
That was, e're you I saw, in sooth,
(Altho' I say't) a dapper Youth.
Here every hour with dreary Frown,
I lay my Head on Elbow down:
Help, or this Love will quite undo me!
Heark how it runs clean thro' and thro' me!
The sighs which up and downwards go,
That I am near the Rattles, show:
Think not that I false grief pretend!
Alas, I weep at either end!

My sweet Sweet-heart, how is't you are
So foolish? sure you be'n't so fair.
O be'n't so hard! what e're you grow,
The Baker sure ne'r made you so.
My Heart, not only with your stroke,
But my few Teeth will all be broke.
Melt then to cure my horrid Drowth;
O melt, altho' 'tis in my Mouth,
Which waters at you; for 'tis true,
Nothing can quench my thirst but you.
Now my cold Fit is more severe,
I shall kick up with meer Despair.

These nipping Mornings pinch, and you,
To mend the matter, freeze me too.
Dear Girl, for once, at my desire,
Prethee, from Ice be turn'd to Fire.
(What e're my Readers Judgment be,
I'm sure I here mean honestly,
Such a kind, harmless, lambent Flame,
As from Ascanius Temples came.)
O warm my Soul, for Cupid's cold-Iron-Dart,
And your more frosty frowns have kibe'd my Heart.