Go envied glove, with anxious care,|
From scorching suns and withering air,
Belinda's hand to guard.
And let no folds offend the sight;
Nor let thy seams, perversely tight,
With hasty rents be marr'd.
Nor fear the fate that oft attends
On truest faith and long-tried friends---
With shame to be displac'd.
You'll ne'er be own'd by menial hag;
Nor e'er in form of button-bag
Or thumb-stall be disgrac'd.
Ere envious time shall bid thee rue
The loss of this thy spotless hue
That now excels the snow,
Some swain, who for Belinda sighs,
Shall bear thee off, a richer prize
Than monarchs could bestow.
By him, in triumph, thou'lt be borne,
And in his faithful bosom worn,
No! never thence to part.
What earthly lot can thine excel?
First on Belinda's hand to dwell,
Then, near a constant heart.