WRITTEN BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
Spoken by Mr. KING.
CHILL’D by rude gales, while yet reluctant
May Withholds the beauties of the vernal day;
As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love;
The season’s pleasures too delay their hour,
And Winter revels with protracted power:
Then blame not, critics, if, thus late, we bring
A Winter Drama — but reproach — the Spring.
What prudent cit dares yet the season trust,
Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust?
Horsed in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark
Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New-road, and dash thro’ Grosvenor-gate:
Anxious — yet timorous too! — his steed to show,
The hack Bucephalus of Rotten-row.
Careless he seems, yet, vigilantly sly,
Woos the stray glance of ladies pasting by,
While his off heel, insidiously aside.
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide.
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains;
The vulgar verdure of her walk remains!
Where white-robed misses amble two by two,
Nodding to booted beaux—’ How’do, how’do?’
With gen’rous questions that no answer wait,
‘How vastly full! A’n’t you come vastly late?
‘Int it quite charming? When do you leave town?
‘A’n’t you quite tired? Pray, can we set you down?
These suburb pleasures of a London May,
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay;
Should our Play please — and you’re indulgent ever —
Be your decree— “Tis better late than never.’