Volume 102 — HORACE IN LONDON. TO A COQUETTE. (AD PYRRHAM.)
Reading edition
What stripling, flowered and scent-bedewed, Now courts thee in what solitude? For whom dost thou in order set Thy tresses' aureole, Coquette. "Neat, but not gaudy"?—Soon Despond (Too soon!) at flouted faith and fond, Soon tempests halcyon tides above Shall wreck this raw recruit of Love; Who counts for gold each tinsel whim, And hopes thee always all for him, And trusts thee, smiling, spite of doom And traitorous breezes! Hapless, whom Thy glamour holds untried. For me, I've dared enough that fitful sea; Its "breach of promise" grim hath curst Both purse and person with its worst. My "dripping weeds" are doffed; and I Sit "landed," like my wine, and "dry;" What "weeds" survive I smoke, and rub My hands in harbour at my Club!