But that pretentious game is dated,
But fit for apes, who once held sway
Amid our forbears' vaunted day;
The fame of Lovelaces has faded
Along with fashions long since dead:
Majestic wigs and heels of red.
8
Who doesn't find dissembling dreary;
Or trying gravely to convince
(Recasting platitudes till weary)
When all agree and have long since;
How dull to hear the same objections,
To overcome those predilections
That no young girl thirteen,
I vow, Has ever had and hasn't now!
Who wouldn't grow fatigued with rages,
Entreaties, vows, pretended fears,
Betrayals, gossip, rings, and tears,
With notes that run to seven pages,
With watchful mothers, aunts who stare,
And friendly husbands hard to bear!
9
Well, this was my Eugene's conclusion.
In early youth he'd been the prey
Of every raging mad delusion,
And uncurbed passions ruled the day.
Quite pampered by a life of leisure,
Enchanted with each passing pleasure,
But disenchanted just as quick,
Of all desire at length grown sick,
And irked by fleet success soon after,
He'd hear mid hum and hush alike
His grumbling soul the hours strike,
And smothered yawns with brittle laughter:
And so he killed eight years of youth
And lost life's very bloom, in truth.
10
He ceased to know infatuation,
Pursuing belles with little zest;
Refused, he found quick consolation;
Betrayed, was always glad to rest.
He sought them out with no elation
And left them too without vexation,
Scarce mindful of their love or spite.
Just so a casual guest at night
Drops in for whist and joins routinely;
And then upon the end of play,
Just takes his leave and drives away
To fall asleep at home serenely;
