Page:(I)nterlocutor.pdf/3



they mark my fine air when I walk, How sentimentally I can talk; How much, upon nothing I can say; These women, to me, would soon give way. When I think how in words I abound, And that my decisions are so sound, Upon my soul, I'm quite thunderstruck, At their gros blindnes, and my bad luck.— If with my eyes he saw my figure, She would not treat me with such rigour, As to slight me, almost past bearing, By not once giving me a hearing, Though I steal from passage to passage, And watch her course at every message.— If she were not as dull as an ass, She'd be as kind as my looking-glass; Like it, at least, return smile for smile, And think she was honour'd all the while.