lirik lagu peggy ashcroft - epistle to miss blount
as some fond virgin, whom her mother’s care
drags from the town to wholesome country air
just when she learns to roll a melting eye
and hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
from the dear man unwillingly she must sever
yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
thus from the world fair zephalinda flew
saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
not that their pleasures caused her discontent
she sighed not that they stayed, but that she went
she went, to plain~work, and to purling brooks
old~fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks
she went from opera, park, assembly, play
to morning walks, and prayers three hours a day;
to pass her time ‘twixt reading and bohea
to muse, and spill her solitary tea
or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon
count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
divert her eyes with pictures in the fire
hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
up to her godly garret after seven
there starve and pray, for that’s the way to heaven
some squire, perhaps, you take a delight to rack;
whose game is whisk, whose treat a toast in sack
who visits with a gun, presents you birds
then gives a smacking buss, and cries – no words!
or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable
makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are co~rs~
and loves you best of all things – but his horse
in some fair evening, on your elbow laid
your dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
in pensive thought recall the fancied scene
see coronations rise on every green;
before you pass th’ imaginary sights
of lords, and earls, and dukes, and gartered knights;
while the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes;
then give one flirt, and all the vision flies
thus vanish scepters, coronets, and b~lls
and leave you in lone woods, or empty walls
so when your slave, at some dear, idle time
(not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme)
stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew
and while he seems to study, thinks of you:
just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes
or sees the blush of soft parthenia rise
gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite;
streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;
vexed to be still in town, i knit my brow
look sour, and hum a tune – as you may now
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