Four Poems on the Countess of Dorchester

I. Sylvia, methinks you are unfit

Sylvia, methinks you are unfit
For your great Lord's embrace;
For tho' we all allow you wit,
We can't a handsome face.
Then where's the pleasure, where's the good
Of spending time and cost?
For if your wit ben't understood,
Your keeper's bliss is lost



II. Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes

Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes,
United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high but quickly dies,
Warms not the heart but hurts the sight.

Love is a calm and tender joy,
Kind are his looks and soft his pace;
Her Cupid is a blackguard boy
That runs his link into your face.



III. Proud with the spoils of royal cully

Proud with the spoils of royal cully,
With false pretence to wit and parts,
She swaggers like a batter'd bully
To try the tempers of men's hearts.

Tho' she appears as gay and fine
As jet and gems and paint can make her,
She ne'er shall win a heart like mine --
The devil or Sir Davy take her.

Her bed is like the Scripture feast,
Where none who were invited came,

So disappointed of her guest,
She took up with the blind and lame.


IV. Tell me, Dorinda, why so gay

Tell me, Dorinda, why so gay,
Why such embroid'ry, fringe, and lace?
Can any dresses find a way
To stop th'approaches of decay
And mend thy ruin'd face?

Wilt thou still sparkle in the box,
And ogle in the ring?
Canst thou forget thy age and pox?
Can all that shines on shells and rocks
Make thee a fine young thing?

So have I seen in larder dark
Of veal a lucid loin,
Replete with many a heatless spark,
As wise philosophers remark,
At once both stink and shine.