# The comic valentine writer/Gentlemen

THE GENTLEMEN'S
COMIC VALENTINE WRITER.
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 sear'd all lovers from your arms, In lean and lanken garb array'd, I leave thee, poor neglected maid.
You say you will not ease my pain, You will not love requite; You look upon me with disdain, I know you can't see right.
My Valentine indeed declares, She cannot bear my sight; When she forgoes those foolish airs, I'll say she then sees right.
Forgive me, pale Miss, if you think I am rude, But I think that your manners declare you a prude; With finnicking fingers you coil up the lace, Your caps and your ribbons with ill-contriv'd grace,
O who but a fool would e'er venture to take For a bride such a trumpery gingerbread cake! Yet whose little conceits, without a penny to spare, Would lead her to think she's a match for a mayor.
Your love on me do not intrude, I do not wish to be deemed rude, But I must tell you plain, You never can engage my heart, Nor can an ardent wish impart, The offer I disdain; Then to some other pray incline, You yet may get a Valentine. Though I don't like you, others may, And so I wish you, ma'am, good day.
I see you forget not the days of your youth, But still in your noddle have got the colt's tooth; But if of money you have but a nice clinking purse, 'Twill induce me to take you—tho' all for the worse. If you are poor, I all thoughts must resign, To take such an old girl for my Valentine.
Could mother Eve but come again, And view her daughters fair, In modish taste so exquisite, With real amaze she'd stare. To acknowledge such a curious race I'm sure she would decline, And say you were a spurious set, My modern Valentine.
How my poor heart does shake and bounce To view your frill and airy flounce; 'Tis not for love, but 'tis for fear, Lest fate design you for my dear: I'd sooner drown and end my life, Than have a dasher for a wife.
Extremes, they say, do rule the fair; You show the truth, I do declare; Your bonnet now so small is grown, It scarce the name of one can own; Your clasp, as large as any shield, Will frighten Cupid from the field, He'll take you for an Amazon, Clap his wings, and off be gone.
Though Cupid shows upon your bag, Your love I must decline, I'd sooner wed a Lapland dog, Than you, my Valentine. Not e'en your plaid can tempt my heart To Scotia's land to go, For such a fright you are in dress, You make a perfect show.
Your years, if numbered, fifty-five would give, Though you profess you're only thirty-five, And so you've said for twenty years, I'd bet, And still no husband have you chosen yet. That dress appropriate to fashion's taste, Girlish and airy, with the tightened waist, Those eyes that smile, the parasol you twirl, And silvery lap-dog, with its hair in curl, Have fairly smitten this poor heart of mine, And so I choose thee for my Valentine.
To wander with thee through the shade of the groves, Or over the moon-lighted mead, And there to discourse of our mutual bliss, Were an exquisite pleasure indeed.
For in the effulgence of beauty and grace, On the last, or the birth-day before, You attained to that age so congenial to love. Interesting and playful threescore.
So when I am on the look out for a wife, I'll take, pretty Valentine, you, With your wig, and your gooseberry eyes, and your cap, And your other et cæteras, too.
When loaded with ribbonds, and feathers, and gauze, You look like a milliner’s pack That's trimmed out for sale at a west country fair, Or a block with a lump on its back.
Carmine and rouge have a most rapid sale, On your face like red lead they shine, Were I to wed you, I soon ruined should be, So farewell, my sweet Valentine.
Feathers flowing, ribbons flying, Bonnet small, and hair in braid. Half the gentlemen are dying To possess thy hand, fair maid; Who those matchless eyes beholding, Who that finely-tinted skin, And that pearly mouth unfolding Smiles to play around that chin; Who thy tout ensemble viewing, Could resist such charms as thine? I, all other maids eschewing, Choose thee for my Valentine.
I’m a comical fellow, and that you’ll allow, I’ve no mind to stand shilly shally; If you’ll have me at all, you may as well now So an answer pray send me, dear Sally: No letter I want, but merely a line, Saying "Yes," or else "No," to your true Valentine.
I, that from youth to sixty-three, Have from the snares of love kept free, And 'gainst the sex would hardly rail, Till that and coughing made me pale,
Now turn my dog out from my bed, And dream all night of being wed. O could I hope that you, like I, Resolv'd alone no more to lie, To church we'd instant be conveyed, A loving bachelor and maid.
When I lately beheld you, I saw with surprise, What I thought was a Venus dropt down from the skies, Who had gone into this and that ready-made shop, Bought a cockle-shell bonnet and feather at top; A cardinal cloak with a tassel behind, And a parasol, one of the least of its kind, Not larger in fact than a cheese-plate in size, And serving to shade only one of the eyes; Whilst a pretty bow wow, perhaps purchased in France, As proud as a peacock jogg'd on in advance; And I envied the fate of that pretty bow wow, To be petted by such a sweet mistress as thou; That I still feel the same I sincerely may say, And have chosen to do so, St. Valentine's day.
You've led me, miss, a pretty dance, Perhaps you thought it would advance Your value, by these long delays, And all your teasing, trifling ways; One day you're cool, another kind, Or I, like Cupid, somewhat blind; Sometimes at home, more oft in doubt, But now my patience is worn out; I therefore do request a line, To end the matter, Valentine; Be honest, candid, kind, and free, As I have always been to thee.
When squinting eyes shall please the sight, And peaked nose shall give delight, And screwed-up mouth, and wrinkled face, Be deemed in Cupid's court, a grace, You then may to the church incline With some enchanting Valentine.
Madam, although so long you've lived, So long all youthful charms survived, So long with eats and lap-dogs too, Have toyed, as maiden ladies do, I've sent this Valentine to say, You still may be entrapped some day. That crow, prophetic, tells you so, And Cupid there has bent his bow; His arrow keen is aimed at you, His purpose you may guess. Adieu!
I pray yon, fair one, to be mine, Upon this day of Valentine. Think not my wish is to intrude, Or that I'm in a prying mood; 'Tis true, I fain would wish to know, If you already have a beau; If not, I hope, by my behaviour, To win your love, and gain your favour; Happy I, would you incline To be my love, my Valentine.
Fie, Betsy, why so gravely look, Because a little kiss I took? Those pretty lips might thousands grant; Rich rogues, they never feel the want. As in the kiss so much you see, A hundred thou mayest take from me. But since, like misers of their store, Thou hast to give, though running o'er, I would not cause the slightest pain, So e'en take back thy kiss again; Nay, with such interest be it done, Thou'rt welcome to take ten for one.
Love is a little urchin sly, Surely his tutor was Paul Pry, He will drop in—in vain he's chidden, He will not go—though oft he's bidden,
Intruding to the very heart, And wounding with a piercing dart. He bids me, lady fair, love you; And that, sweet maid, indeed I do: Then, to my suit, I pray incline, And take me for your Valentine.
Beneath the rose-bud's modest guise, Concealed from view thy beauty lies, For no one ever yet could trace, The slightest beauty in thy face. We therefore must conclude That it lies hidden, till a time more fit; Some day, that rose-bud will unclose, And burst into the perfect rose; And then, at length, will be revealed, That beauty you've so long concealed; But not till then, do I design, To choose thee for my Valentine.
Oh! fie Miss Mary, fie upon it, Those orange ribbons round your bonnet, Have made you hold your head so high, And look so proud and saucily, That justly do both young and old, Compare you to the marigold; That flaunting flower of dingy red, Which grows in every flower bed. Turn not to me those eyes of thine,  You ne'er shall be my Valentine; You are too forward and too bold To suit my taste, Miss Marigold.
Your looks, sweet madam, do resemble Hecate's, and they make me tremble, Lest you lay siege unto my heart, And make my future hours smart; I hope my fate does not design, To mate me with you, Valentine.
What are you like, I cannot tell, Some moderns call you dandazelle: But from the time of ancient Greek, Quite down to forty-nine, I seek To model you: so I decline A non-descriptious Valentine.
You'll see by this, my dearest life, How it will be when you're my wife; Like me you'll find, (the reason suiting) That Cupid has been pigeon shooting; I will not speak about my merit, But hope, like you, to have some spirit; Yet this I'll say, if you ne'er flirt will, I'll prove a real, and not mock, turtle.
Who so magnificent as you, Miss Blue-bell, in your bonnet blue? I would not, though, look quite so sour, In scorn of every other flower; As though you thought the lily, rose, And every other flower that blows, Was far inferior to you, Because she has no bonnet blue. Why, smarter bonnets we may meet, Amongst the belles of Regent Street, And smarter buy, with trimmings gay, For four-and-nine-pence, any day; But though you sport a bonnet blue, And though that bonnet may be new, And though in splendid dress you shine, You shall not be my Valentine.
If in love he would fall, let the amorous swain Behold you, when caught in a shower of rain; Let him then see you striving your shape to display, As through mud and through puddles you wriggle your way.
What a neek, what a waist, and oh! would I could find Another name for it--your bustle behind. Let me see, there was something besides I would say, But I'll leave it, I think, to next Valentine's day.
I am an odd fellow, that wants an odd wife To pass with him all the odd days of his life: To bring him odd children, to serve, d'ye see, As careful odd comforts to you and to me; 'Tis an odd thought, I own, but it comes from a heart, Which, for you, my odd fair one, now feels an odd smart, Now if you, my odd lass, are thus oddly inclined, And will to an odd fellow reveal your odd mind, To an odd church we'll go, and be made man and wife, And, like an odd pair, try to cheer this odd life.
What could have indueed you an old maid to be, Delighting in scandal and gunpowder tea; Who keeps a poll parrot to screech in a cage, Like yourself, getting pettish and grey with old age; As also a pug overburthened with fat, And ditto a very ill-tempered tom cat; A stranger to all matrimonial bliss, To be called in the midst of your wrinkles—a Miss. Oh, who would submit to so galling a jeer, Get married at once, ere the end of the year, That so my next Valentine, unlike to this, May reach you—directed to Mistress—not Miss.
Madam, may I dare to ask it, What you have within your basket? I shrewdly guess 'tis cordial gin, Which you've so slily smuggled in; The weather's cold for the time of year Have mercy, and a little spare To warm your frozen Valentine, So let us in a bumper join.
Then let us drink, and let us love, And daily Cupid's joys improve, So happily we'll pass through life, Devoid of care, devoid of strife.
Dear Betty, oft you've known me stop, When you've been twirling round your mop; Your rosy cheeks and arms so plump, Make my poor heart go thump-a-thump; Then, dearest Betty, now incline To be my faithful Valentine.
Start not, good madam, nor unkindly frown; The portrait's like, by all it is well-known,— Lillies and roses in this fine face view, Which, be assured, does not resemble you; Yes, red and white this charming face adorn, Though they in you their usual places scorn: The lily's hue o'er all thy cheek is spread, Whilst round thy eyes we see a lively red; What though no diamond lustre deek your eyes, Or the celestial blue that paints the skies— Though black or hazel be not in them seen, They wear, like pussy, a gay gooseberry green; And nature did one gem for you compose, She placed a flaming ruby on—your nose.
Suppose, my dashing lady fair, We a compromise make; I'll cast away my stays, If you to decent dress will take. 'Gainst folly you in vain exclaim, And yet the path pursue; If converts you do wish to gain, Pray preach and practice too. Once more resume the British dress, On foreign modes pray trample; When you, dear madam, show your sense, I'll follow the example.