Tell us why our poor tender hearts
So easily admit love's darts.
Teach us the marks of love's beginning,
What makes us think a beau so winning
What makes us think a coxcomb witty,
A black coat wise, a red coat pretty;
Why we believe such horrid lies,
That we are angels from the skies,
Our teeth like pearl, our cheeks like roses,
Our eyes like stars, such charming noses!
Explain our dreams, awake or sleeping,
Explain our blushing, laughing, weeping,
Teach us, dear Doctor, if you can,
To humble that proud creature, Man;
To turn the wise ones into fools,
The proud and insolent to tools;
To make them all run helter skelter,
Their necks into the marriage halter:
Then leave us to ourselves with these,
We'll turn and rule them as we please.
Dear Doctor, if you grant our wishes,
We promise you five hundred kisses;
And, rather than the affair be blundered,
We'll give you six score to the hundred.
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T H E B A C H E L O R' S S O L I L O Q U Y.
To wed, or not to wed?--that is the question,
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous love,
Or to take arms against the pow'rfol flame,
And by opposing, quench it. To wed--to marry--
No more--and by a marriage say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to--'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd!--to wed--to marry--
To marry--perchance a scold--ay, there's the rub:
For in that wedded life what ills may come,
When we have shuffled off our single state,
Must give us serious pause--there's the respect
That makes the Bachelors a num'rous race--
For who would bear the dull, unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men--cheer'd by no smile,
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence?--Who would bear the cruel gibes
