The Author Apologizes to a Lady

for His Being a Little Man

Yes, contumelious fair, you scorn

The amorous dwarf that courts you to his arms,

But ere you leave him quite forlorn,

And to some youth gigantic yield your charms,

Hear him—oh hear him, if you will not try,

And let your judgement check th’ ambition of your eye.

Say, is it carnage makes the man?

Is to be monstrous really to be great?

Say, is it wise or just to scan

Your lover’s worth by quantity or weight?

Ask your mamma and nurse, if it be so;

Nurse and mamma I ween shall jointly answer, no.

The less the body to the view,

The soul (like springs in closer durance pent)

Is all exertion, ever new,

Unceasing, unextinguished, and unspent;

Still pouring forth executive desire,

As bright, as brisk, and lasting, as the vestal fire.

Does thy young bosom pant for fame:

Would’st thou be of posterity the toast?

The poets shall endure thy name,

Who magnitude of mind not body boast.

Laurels on bulky bards as rarely grow,

As on the sturdy oak the virtuous mistletoe.

Look in the glass, survey that cheek—

Where Flora has with all her roses blushed;

The shape so tender,—look so meek—

The breasts made to be pressed, not to be crushed—

Then turn to me,—turn with obliging eyes,

Nor longer nature’s works, in miniature, despise.

Young Ammon did the world subdue,

Yet had not more external man than I;

Ah! charmer, should I conquer you,

With him in fame, as well as size, I’ll vie.

Then, scornful nymph, come forth to yonder grove,

Where I defy, and challenge, all thy utmost love.