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He will look at the picture, and sigh, and remember
How delightsome was June till it turned to December—
Will remember, though dimple and blush could not last,
And the time of brocades and bolero is past,
Though the shoes are danced through and the roses are dead,
That I was a beauty when first we were wed.
How delightsome was June till it turned to December—
Will remember, though dimple and blush could not last,
And the time of brocades and bolero is past,
Though the shoes are danced through and the roses are dead,
That I was a beauty when first we were wed.
To think 'twill all vanish—alas! and alas!
—I am ready, you say?—one more look in the glass!
And, quick, Betty, find me my big yellow fan,
And let me descend—I have lingered too long—
—My lord will lose patience, I'm sadly afraid!
And fidget, and fume, and begin to upbraid,
And to chide me—tis ever the way with a man!
And the painter will chafe, and the picture go wrong,—
My gloves!—but no matter—there's one of them missing—
Throw open the door—Why, he's waiting, I vow—
My lord, at your service! . . . Nay, fie on such kissing!
By and bye, if you will—'tis no time for it now!
—I am ready, you say?—one more look in the glass!
And, quick, Betty, find me my big yellow fan,
And let me descend—I have lingered too long—
—My lord will lose patience, I'm sadly afraid!
And fidget, and fume, and begin to upbraid,
And to chide me—tis ever the way with a man!
And the painter will chafe, and the picture go wrong,—
My gloves!—but no matter—there's one of them missing—
Throw open the door—Why, he's waiting, I vow—
My lord, at your service! . . . Nay, fie on such kissing!
By and bye, if you will—'tis no time for it now!
