Part 2 — THE CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID
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Soon as the day begins to waste, Straight to the well-known door I haste, And rapping there, I'm forced to stay While Molly hides her work with care, Adjusts her tucker and her hair, And nimble Becky scours away.
Entering, I see in Molly's eyes A sudden smiling joy arise, As quickly checked by virgin shame: She drops a curtsey, steals a glance, Receives a kiss, one step advance.— If such I love, am I to blame?
I sit, and talk of twenty things, Of South Sea stock, or death of kings, While only "Yes" or "No," says Molly; As cautious she conceals her thoughts, As others do their private faults:— Is this her prudence, or her folly?
Parting, I kiss her lip and cheek, I hang about her snowy neck, And cry, "Farewell, my dearest Molly!" Yet still I hang and still I kiss, Ye learned sages, say, is this In me the effect of love, or folly?
No—both by sober reason move,— She prudence shows, and I true love— No charge of folly can be laid. Then (till the marriage-rites proclaimed Shall join our hands) let us be named The constant swain, the virtuous maid.
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