Poems (Probyn)/"Portrait of a lady, 17—"
"PORTRAIT OF A LADY, 17—."
Catalogue.
Catalogue.
He has come, do you say?—only waits to begin?
Quick, Betty, the patches—no minute's delay!
Now, a small one just here at the side of the chin,
That may draw people's eye to the dimple at play.
Oh! Betty, this ruffle—'tis dropping awry!
And, Betty, my hair—is it piled up too high?
What think you?—the rose, and a string of the pearls
Just carelessly twining about in the curls?—
And, Betty—you think I am looking my best?
You are sure you have done all your utmost endeavour?
That I lack nothing more to be modishly dressed?
As you see me to-day folk will see me for ever.
Who knocks?—what, my lord? (how the gloves get mislaid!)
Go say that I'll wait on him, girl, in a minute.
Did I well to make choice of the rosebud brocade?
(See this ruffle again—I protest you must pin it!)
For you know 'twas a rose-patterned sacque that I wore,
With the necklace of pearls, at the Duchess's rout,
With the shoes that stood five inches high from the floor,
When I danced a gavotte, and my lord led me out.
And then, you remember, I wore it again
To that syllabub party at Strawberry Hill,
When he wiled me away down a rose-trellised lane,
To a grotto that stood by the side of a rill,
With a nymph and an urn—I can see the place still,
And the rose—it was just such another as this!—
That I stuck in my hair, and he snatched with a kiss.
He'd a peach-colored coat and a sword-knot of gold,
And his hair was unpowdered, all curling and yellow—
And I thought—I was foolish and not very old—
That I never had met with a prettier fellow.
Quick, Betty, the patches—no minute's delay!
Now, a small one just here at the side of the chin,
That may draw people's eye to the dimple at play.
Oh! Betty, this ruffle—'tis dropping awry!
And, Betty, my hair—is it piled up too high?
What think you?—the rose, and a string of the pearls
Just carelessly twining about in the curls?—
And, Betty—you think I am looking my best?
You are sure you have done all your utmost endeavour?
That I lack nothing more to be modishly dressed?
As you see me to-day folk will see me for ever.
Who knocks?—what, my lord? (how the gloves get mislaid!)
Go say that I'll wait on him, girl, in a minute.
Did I well to make choice of the rosebud brocade?
(See this ruffle again—I protest you must pin it!)
For you know 'twas a rose-patterned sacque that I wore,
With the necklace of pearls, at the Duchess's rout,
With the shoes that stood five inches high from the floor,
When I danced a gavotte, and my lord led me out.
And then, you remember, I wore it again
To that syllabub party at Strawberry Hill,
When he wiled me away down a rose-trellised lane,
To a grotto that stood by the side of a rill,
With a nymph and an urn—I can see the place still,
And the rose—it was just such another as this!—
That I stuck in my hair, and he snatched with a kiss.
He'd a peach-colored coat and a sword-knot of gold,
And his hair was unpowdered, all curling and yellow—
And I thought—I was foolish and not very old—
That I never had met with a prettier fellow.
Do you think he has wit enough left to discover
That I'm looking to-day as I looked when we met?
He's a husband, alas! and no longer a lover,
But still—he is vastly content with me yet!
And, Betty, perchance when we both have grown old,
When his hair is no longer all yellow with gold,
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.
That I'm looking to-day as I looked when we met?
He's a husband, alas! and no longer a lover,
But still—he is vastly content with me yet!
And, Betty, perchance when we both have grown old,
When his hair is no longer all yellow with gold,
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.
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!