The Poetical Works of Elijah Fenton/A-la-mode
A-LA-MODE.
My better self, my heav'n, my joy!While thus imparadis'd I lie,Transported in thy circling armsWith fresh variety of charms,From Fate I scarce can think to crave 5A bliss but what in thee I have.Twelve months, my Dear! have past, since thouDidst plight to me thy virgin vow;Twelve months in rapture spent! for theySeem shorter than St. Lucy's day: 10A bright example we shall proveOf lasting matrimonial love.Mean-while I beg the gods to grant(The only favour that I want)That I may not survive, to see 15My happiness expire with thee. O! should I lose my dearest dear,By thee, and all that's good, I swear,I'd give myself the fatal blow,And wait thee to the world below. 20When Wheedle thus to spouse in bedSpoke the best things he e'er had read,Madam, surpris'd, (you must suppose it)Had lock'd a Templar in the closet;A youth of pregnant parts and worth, 25To play at picquet, and so forth—This wag, when he had heard the whole,Demurely to the curtain stole,And peeping in, with solemn tone,Cry'd out, "O Man! thy days are done: 30"The gods are fearful of the worst,"And send me, Death, to fetch thee first;"To save their fav'rite from self-murder,"Lo! thus I execute their order.""Hold, Sir, for second thoughts are best," 35The husband cry'd; "it is my request"With pleasure to prolong my life."———"Your meaning?"—"Pray, Sir, take my wife." 38