Lords, Knights, and Squires, the num’rous Band

That wear the Fair Miss Mary’s Fetters,

Were summon’d, by her high Command,

To show their Passion by their Letters.

My Pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright Eyes that cannot read

Shou’d dart their kindling Fires, and look

The Pow’r they have to be obey’d.

Nor Quality, nor Reputation,

Forbid me yet my Flame to tell,

Dear Five Years old befriends my Passion,

And I may Write ’till she can Spell.

For while she makes her Silk-worms Beds

With all the tender things I swear,

Whilst all the House my Passion reads,

In Papers round her Baby’s Hair,

She may receive and own my Flame,

For tho’ the strictest Prudes shou’d know it,

She’ll pass for a most virtuous Dame,

And I for an unhappy Poet.

Then too, alas, when she shall tear

The Lines some younger Rival sends,

She’ll give me leave to Write, I fear,

And we shall still continue Friends.

For as our diff’rent Ages move,

‘Tis so ordain’d, wou’d Fate but mend it,

That I shall be past making Love,

When she begins to comprehend it.