Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/152

152 And every beau so stupid grown, I 'm moped to death here, quite alone,— This traveller looks prodigious grand,— Why Lord!—he 's driving four in hand,— Old Sol can boast no studs so nice They 'd whisk to Sirius in a trice. Straight toward our Sire he hastes, I see, To make proposals, sure, for me,— I hope he 's rich,—for that 's the thing, His equipage bespeaks a king.— Both chivalry and taste he 'll prove, By such a journey too, for love."— With that, she drew her dressing case To rub the spots from off her face, But warn'd by woman's latent fear Too bold or willing to appear, All faint and fluttering as a bride She threw her lattice up, and cried— —"Mercury!—dear neighbour! stop, I pray! What savage monster flies this way?— I 'm scared to death,—in such a fright I have not slept a wink all night. You 're in your perihelion, too, So handy to the palace, do Just stop,—such tremors shake my frame, And ask our Sire the creature's name."— —So Mercury, train'd like modern beaux To oblige the ladies, when he chose, Made his best congee, bending low, And promptly answer'd "I will so."— Then donn'd his salamander hat, And off upon his transit sat,