# New mirror of love

THE
NEW
MIRROR OF LOVE;
A COLLECTION
OF THE BEST AND NEWEST
VALENTINE VERSES, ACROSTICS,
&c. &c.
GLASGOW:
SOLD WHOLESALE BY FRANCIS ORR & SON.
1832.
THE
NEW MIRROR OF LOVE.
TO A LADY OF RESPECTABILITY.
Thou art my love, and thou alone; Oh, both by day and night, I own, For thee I pine: My thoughts and dreams are all on thee Then say, my fair one, wilt thou be My Valentine?
Love thee—take it not amiss, And, oh, supreme would be my bliss, If thou wert mine: Then say, my fair, if thou agree To make me happy, and to be My Valentine!
Beleive me, that by day and night, I’d feel ineffable delight, In being thine, Then doubt me not, oh, do not fear, For you shall find me every year Thy Valentine.
TO A WIDOW.
What! tho’ thou hadst some time ago A Valentine—what then? The dame of Ephesus you know, Resolved to wed again.
The time of mourning hath expired. All sorrow then decline. And let another be admired— Another Valentine.
TO A LADY IN HER TEENS.
Thou innocent charmer incline Thy ears to my ditty I pray; Beware of the falseValentine, Who promises but to betray.
To-day will no doubt bring you, Miss, Of Valentines, may be, a score; Compare them, I pray, thro', with this, And read them attentively o’er.
I wish as a lover and friend, For friendship and love both should join If they flatter, you then may depend, Not one is a true Valentine.
What matter their promises fair, If they to the truth don’t incline! Perhaps you’ll find none so sincere, As he who writes this Valentine.
TO A LADY.
She must be both good and fair, Who shall e’er my arms entwine : She must be indeed sincere. Who shall be my Valentine.
Thou art fair and virtuous too, Tho’ I will not say divine; And I am certain thou art true. Therefore be my Valentine.
TO A LADY FOND OF PLAYS.
Not The Poor Gentleman am I, Nor even The Heir at Law; Who wants a Guinea? you may cry, I scorn The Prize to draw.
A Bold Stroke for a Wife appears, The Stratagem is mine; The Honeymoon shall last for years, Then be my Valentine.
To Matrimony then agree, For no Deaf Lover I, The Constant Couple, we shall be: The Rivals I’ll defy.
Frighten'd to Death, I’ll be, if thou, A Lover's Vows decline; But let’s be Man and Wife, for now I am thy Valentine.
TO A LADY, AS A FIRST ATTEMPT.
Ye muses, how shall I begin? Oh, lend me your powerful aid, That I may’ve the pleasure to win My lovely and beautiful maid.
Oh, grant my adorable may To the sweet tender passion incline; May pardon this humble essay, And smile on a fond Valentine !
TO A LADY WITHOUT FORTUNE.
I ask not wealth—the rich, we see, Oft wretched ’midst their pelf: Thy merit is enough for me; A treasure in thy self.
Oh, had I bags of massy gold, Those bags would I resign, As mine, my charmer to behold, And be her Valentine.
TO A LADY.
'Tis customary on this day, For us a compliment to pay; I therefore do to thee assign, The title of my Valentine.
​This seeming liberty I take, Believe me not for custom’s sake; Still doth my constant heart incline. To thee my dearest Valentine.
It is the language of that heart, Which now I candidly impart, No formal words precise and fine, Unworthy of my Valentine.
Believe me, oh, thou charming fair, The language of the heart’s sincere; Then do not love for love decline, But be my faithful Valentine.
TO A LADY OFTEN WRITTEN TO BEFORE.
How often I’ve written in vain, How often in vain have implor’d? Oh, have I no right to complain, When slighted by her I’ve ador’d?
Thy sex is for tenderness known, Dear women our manners refine; Then why to unkindness thus prone, Why slight thus a fond Valentine ?
TO A LADY.
To thee I am attach’d, The reason I‘ll define; ​We’re admirably match'd, Then be my Valentine.
Thou lov’st an active life, I to the same incline; We both are foes to strife, Then be my Valentine.
I say that love is free, Such thought I’m sure is thine; We ne'er shall disagree, My charming Valentine.
ANOTHER.
Now's the time to bill and woo, Prithee be my Valentine: All the lovers that are true, Hymen’s ready to co-join.
Now's the time for love and joy Will you be my Valentine? Cupid will the time employ, And our heart's together twine.
ANOTHER.
May a youth, without offending, Take the liberty of sending Only half a dozen lines ? I do love thee—oh! agree then ​To be mine, and we shall be then Very happy Valentines.
TO A LADY FOND OF READING.
Since books so much delight you To verses I’ll invite you, Oh, ponder every line: I wish, indeed, my metre, Was loftier and sweeter, To please my Valentine.
Had I heroics fine, how With Walter Scott I’d vie now— The task I’d ne’er decline; So moving, so pathetic, Sublime and energetic, Should be my Valentine!
Accept my strains, however, Tho’ they’re a poor endeavour, My passion to define; This sentence, tho’ should move you— Then mark it well—I love you, And am your Valentine!
TO A LADY OF PIETY.
Thou art my saint, religious fair! Thou art indeed divine! And such a saint, may angels spare, To be my Valentine!
​I’ve mark’d thy piety and alms, And give thee all due praise— Mark’d thy attention to the Psalms, And all thy sainted ways!
Oh! let me not then pray in vain, sinner now refine— Oh! let one great blessing gain— A pious Valentine!
TO A LADY.
My life is in thy power fair! For breath I must resign; If my existence thou’lt not spare, And be my Valentine.
Oh, then, my charmer must agree, And not my death design; I wish, indeed, to live for thee, And be my Valentine.
ANOTHER.
Be cautious, lady, whom you trust, Or you may soon repine; Be sure the man is true and just, You make your Valentine.
Let him who this advice can give, The marriage contract sign; ​For such a man cannot deceive— A worthy Valentine.
TO A LADY.
Every day I think on thee, Every night my love I see, Thoughts and dreams so well agree, I sure may say, They’re indeed a happy sign, That my love shall soon be mine, And I shall be her Valentine, Auspicious day !
A SAILOR TO A LADY.
I know that you are So kind to a tar, You’ll never keep love under hatches Then will you be mine, My dear Valentine ? Say, Yes, and by Neptune a match ’tis.
I hope I may ffnd A calm to my mind, And Valentine’s day be fine weather; I’m hardy and free, So, if you agree, To Hymen we’ll steer both together.
Then how blows the wind? ​Pray will you be kind? If so, a good haven is my lot— Your rigging I like, Your colours then strike And I’ll with three cheers be your pilot.
TO A BAKER.
Baking, baking, what a sloven, Out of doors or at the oven, With darned hose about the legs, Like dusters hung on wooden pegs.
A numping pie, polluting sinner, Who dips in dishes for a pinner, Meat shaver, who politely takes, From beef or veal or spicy cakes.
O! never, never, would I be The wife of such a knave as thee; And never, never, would I match With one who’d spoil of love the batch.
TO AN AFFECTED LADY.
Ah; cease dear madam, cease to give, To every bosom pain and sorrow; Not that thy beauty wounds believe Me ’tis thy vanity——good morrow!
TO A BUTCHER.
Pert and greasy, rude and sly, Stands the butcher, buy-you-buy, Ah! buy indeed, to buy and rue, Would be to buy a calf like you; No, no, Sir; e’er you like on betters, Mend your manners, learn your letters, And, if of love your tongue must prattle Bleat your lays among the cattle.
FROM A COBLER.
My love, my life, my heart my awl, Within your breast I seek a stall, For my poor heart to beat; For love unites my heart to you, As wax-ends bind the leather shoe, And makes it awl complete.
Come, then, let love unite us one, As girdle binds the strong lap-stone, Upon thy lovers knee; For cupid by his powerful art, Has chang’d my awl into a dart, And thus I bleed for thee.
TO AN OLD BACHELOR.
Ah! Simon Selfish, lack a day, Methinks I hear the people say, ​Here comes the sorry elf, The man who rarely gets a bone To pick, but chumps his crust alone, That moulders on the shelf.
Behold him in his nook, I ween, Where any thing but comfort’s seen, Around his dingy hole; Anon he darns his tatter’d hose, Or cleans a napkin for his nose, The groom of his own stole!
’Tis passing strange, the secret’s out, Why who would pair with such a lout, With ideas unrefin’d;— Neglected and despis’d you live, While inly to yourself you grieve, The fair are so unkind.
PROSE EPISTLES.
Sir, I know not in what words to convey the sense I have of your merit; custom prevents a female disclosing her affection to the object on whom her heart fondly doats, but if you knew how much I esteem and admire you, you would not thinkmeimprudent in declaring my passion I have frequently thought, before I committed this to paper, it is not so great an impropriety in expressing my regard first, and am very sure you can guess who the writer is; therefore, if ​your heart is not already engaged, cousider if the trust love, the tenderest affection, the sincerest respect and duty, has any influence in your breast; reflect on this, and, if possible, send a happy reply To your faithful and anxiously expecting
Valentine.
Dear Amelia, Pardon the liberty I have taken in embracing the opportunity this day affords to acquaint you with my sincere passion. I have long admired your gentle and unassuming manners, your charming face, and elegant form, and find my heart quite subdued. My destiny is totally in your power either to be most happy or most miserable. Do not keep me in suspense, but frankly say if you can love me in return; and if you favour me with an interview, as I imagine you will guess the hand-writing, we may perhaps appoint the day that shall unite us in love and happiness. From your faithful
Valentine.
Dear Maria,
Your faithful Valentine
Sir,
Your constant Valentine.
Sir,
Your faithful Valentine.
FROM A TALLOW CHANDLER.
Light of mine eyes, to me impart The beams of love to cheer a heart, That burns with love for thee; Ah! e’re my light of life decays, Illume me with the radiant rays Of thy fond love to me.
FROM A PRINTER.
You are the finest, print, my dear, That ever eyes did bless; A better type, I do declare, Did never come from press. Oh! let me take thee in the sheets, And fold thee to my mind, You’d make a pretty book complete Which I with love would bind. The page of love I then would read, A lecture sweet and fine; I’d spell you all with truth indeed, My pretty Valentine.
FROM A BOOKSELLER.
What a trouble and searching there’s always to get A volume that’s lost, to make perfect a set! Now I’m that odd volume, and only seek yon, To make the work perfect, first publish’d in two ​In the book of Creation the first vol. was Adam Then a second came on, and that was his Madam: But they’re long out of print, and strong’s my suspicion[edition. That our two vols. in one would improve the So freely I’ve spoke, that I hope you’ll incline To become my fair copy and dear Valentine.
ANSWER.
Whate’er is your wish, believe it’s not mine, To think I should like you, my odd Valentine. One weighty objection’s the company you keep The best are in calf, and the poorer in sheep. ’Mongst folios, and quartos, octavos, & twelves And all your dead stock, there’s no room for ourselves. The Muse I admire, and I’d rather, pray let her, Have a cellar of books than the finest bookseller
TO A HAUGHTY PERSON.
Could vanity please, or folly delight, Without beauty of person or mind; [might You’ve pretensions indeed, which certainly For such graces, admirers find.
But since the reverse is the case, pray refrain, ​Such fantastic report will not do; For bethink thee ’tis madness indeed to be vain Of folly and ugliness too.
TO AN OLD MAID.
Of stiff deport, demure of phiz, With airs so prim, a perfect quiz; With head oblique, and sideling eyes, And breast where disappointment lies; Thy maiden charms—thy face appears To wear the badge of many years, Of sorrow sad vexation grief, Where love afforded no relief: Now pozing o’er those graceless charms That scar’d all lovers from your arms, In lean and lanken garb array’d, I leave the poor neglected maid.
TO A GENTLEMAN.
A Valentine I have receiv’d, And think it must be thine: Yet cou’d it be indeed believ’d, You’d send a Valentine?
If ’twas for mere amusement’s sake, You practis’d every line; Why then, in dudgeon I must take Your wicked Valentine.
​If lore did expectations raise, To kneel in Hymen’s shrine; I must consider then, your lays, A pretty Valentine.
ACROSTIC.
I s there a heart that does not feel L ove’s gentle impulse lurking steal, O n downy pinions, to his breast? V ainly I hail the pleasing guest, E xcept, in off’ring of my heart, Y our’s take in mine an equal part. O tell me this, and love shall soon U nite our two fond hearts in one.
ANOTHER.
H ow sweet are the early spring flow’rs. E nliv’ning the winter-clad plain! N ot a bird on the tree but carols to see R eviving those beauties and bow’rs, You’ve sigh’d for with me, but in vain.
ANOTHER.
S hall I still in secret pine, U nless you’ll be my Valentine? ​S top a bit ! a thought I’ve hit; A nd if you wont, in short, be mine, N o matter, love, if I am thine!
TO A LADY.
While the shun shines, love, make hay; Ah, when you can, do not say nay,— For fortune loves the bold. Old maids, report say, oft leal apes, And bachelors take queerish shapes, If single till they’re old. Listen then——my suit approve, And be my Valentine, my love.
ANSWER.
With proverbs, Sir, I see you play,— With proverbs, too, I answer nay,— For second thoughts are best. That haste makes waste the wise heads old, And hottest love is soonest cold. Once well done—guess the rest.
TO A LADY.
When I wander by the stream, Of thee, and love, and doubt, I dream: ​For, ah! the stream my thought supplies With contradict’ry similies. Does not its face reflect the sky? And is not heav’n in thine eye? Deep and clear it keeps its course, Reflecting light with gentle force; So does that lucid soul of thine Embellish and illumine mine. The gentle murmurs on its breast, Like thine, allure and lull to rest. Alas! if fancy change the side, And view it with the turn of tide, Where is its constancy? and where That smoothness when the tempests tear? The margin’d stream, with wild flow’rs dress’d, Is by a thousand lovers press’d; And, rifling all its softer charms, It fills and wantons in their arms. Not like the wave to me then seem, But like the Pow’r that made the stream, Good, kind, unchanging, true; For such thou art—and such how few!
FROM A GENTLEMAN.
For three lone months I’ve strove to hide What now I can no longer; Tho’ silent grief has made me weak, My love I find is stronger. So, if your mind is like your form, You cruel, sure, can’t be, ​But deign to love a wretched man, Who lives alone for thee; Or else to end my life this night Is really my design, With pistol loaded, and well prim’d, Your constant Valentine.
FROM A LADY.
I love thee, dear youth, and can I do less, As I love thee thus dearly, that love to confess; No, nor will I a faithful affection disown, That claims but thy dear approbation alone. I love! yes, I love, most sincerely, ’tis true, And all that affection is center’d in you; Ah! say then, beloved, you’ll love me again, And I'll strive to love more, if I strive but in vain.
TO AN OLD LADY AFFECTING YOUTH.
Perhaps you’d not forgive, my Valentine, The truth I write; but truth must be divine; And now you’re past the boundary of youth, No doubt you’ll more & more esteem the truth. Take my advice, leave off that youthful dress, And own at fifty what your looks confess [mend Double we see those faults which art would Plain downright ugliness would less offend. There still remains one tooth within your head ​And that’s a colt's—the rest are loose or fled. There is your hair, and whitish ev’ry lock, And in your reck’ning you mistake the clock: It points no more to twelve, but six at night; Mistakes are nat’ral to a failing sight. Mouth can’t receive you; but you may to age Have charms still left to catch some tott’ring sage; And, like the plum or damson, he’ll not scoff, But think you wholesome when the bloom is off
FROM A GENTLEMAN.
O Love, thou destroyer of rest, What passions appear in thy train! If kind, what a balm to the breast! If slighting, how bitter’s the pain!
The youth unregarded, that sighs To Heav’n for pity in pray’r, Sighs on till extinguish’d hope dies, And death is the cure of despair.
ANSWER.
O talk not to me of despair, Of the passion that robs you of rest Of all that you feel I’m aware, By the feelings that lurks in my breast. You know that I love—but forget ​That to parents and friends I must bend; Love sinks under gratitude’s debt, And all you can be is—my friend!
ACROSTIC.
A way my anxious doubts and fears! N o action but my heart endears, N o lips more honey’d to the touch, E yes, too, that speak, nor speak too much.
ANOTHER.
W hen judgment and wit are combin’d I n one tender and sensible mind, L ove’s busy, at least, so I find, L ooking out to see whom he can snare. I'm caught—but I do not much care; A s love is a lott’ry, I’ll e’en take a share. M ay fortune then favour the brave & the fair.
FINIS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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