The Pearl/Volume 4/AN EPISTLE TO A LADY.

Mrs. T. T., wife of a lawyer; she had first been the wife of Dr. F., another lawyer.

Some moments in life, I could wish very long, Because as the monkey said, pleasant but wrong; 'Tis sweet to remember some frolics I've had, Though the angel who suffered them cries out, "Too bad."

Yes, grant me that angel, another man's wife, She is by law, but to me she is life; That rich feast of pleasure, that rapture, I'd call it, That devil that tickles my intellect's palate.

I'm well read in woman, I seldom can find, One that brings a new relish of joy to my mind; But she's quite a treat, one that never can pall, Think all you can think, she surpasses it all.

Oh would that I had her! -and had her just now, I can make love much better, than verses, I vow; Her, I ardently covet, and love, and esteem, I saw but last night, in a sweet Golden Dream.

The dress that she wore, fitted close as her skin, 'Twas of Paradise fashion, ere fig leaves came in; Her smooth birthday suit, all of flesh colour'd buff, With a furbelow too, a divine little muff.

But a creature so fair's a mere victim for evil, So she straightway received an address from the devil; He came drest like a lawyer, so grand and severe, And assured her she suited him, just to a hair.

O how could she bear such a lifeless old lover, She who palpitates warm with excitement all over; She who throbs like my heart, on the ravishing stretch, How could she endure such a cold-blooded wretch?

She smiled at his pleadings - and then she saw me. It was just before tasting the wit-giving tree! And the barrister prim, a great man in his college, Was to introduce her to the fair tree of knowledge.

But alas; with that knowledge, came misery too, And the Eve of my vision, evanished from view; The devil soon died, but the very next glimpse, Betrayed she had now married one of his imps!

To escape the dull phiz of this crabbed attorney, She to Italy flew, on a classical journey; Next I met her, more lovely, though after twelve years, In her dear little parlour, so private, up-stairs.

There knee pressing knee, and kind eyes within eyes, Our converse still broken, with fluttering sighs; We talked about books, and the way to improve, But our tremors confessed the sweet fever of love.

Ah! would that we both had had wisdom at will, Though it might have prevented us kissing our fill! Those blisses are short, that most heavenly seem, I woke, and behold, it was merely a dream!