WHEN  talk'd to-day
Of Profits and of  Lay,
And list'ning  heard the Sound
Of number Ten with added Pound,
The saucy Minx betray'd her Pride,
And turn'd her scornful Head aside:
You, doubtless, Madam, wonder'd why,
And hardly could believe 'twas I:
But all have Faults, and 'twou'd be vain
To boast a Heart that's free from Stain.
This Maxim  prov'd was true,
No golden Apples lay in view
Across her Path — and yet she fell:
The Cause — have Patience and we'll tell,
You saw not — no, to my Surprize
It scap'd your penetrating Eyes;
The wicked Knot — 'twas new to-day,
The Knot — what Colour was it, pray?
So gay, 'twou'd make a Hermit vain;
Then wonder not at  Brain.