by: Aristaenetus

      S yesterday I went to dine
      With Pamphilus, a swain of mine,
      I took my sister, little heeding
      The net I for myself was spreading;
      Though many circumstances led
      To prove she'd mischief in her head.
      For first her dress in every part
      Was studied with the nicest art:
      Deck'd out with necklaces and rings,
      And twenty other foolish things;
      And she had curl'd and bound her hair
      With more than ordinary care:
      And then, to show her youth the more,
      A light, transparent robe she wore--
      From head to heel she seem'd t' admire
      In raptures all her fine attire:
      And often turn'd aside to view
      If others gazed with raptures too.--
      At dinner, grown more bold and free,
      She parted Pamphilus and me;
      For veering round unheard, unseen,
      She slyly drew her chair between.
      Then with alluring, am'rous smiles,
      And nods, and other wanton wiles,
      And unsuspecting youth ensnared,
      And rivall'd me in his regard.--
      Next she affectedly would sip
      The liquor that had touch'd his lip.
      He, whose whole thoughts to love incline.
      And heated with th' enliv'ning wine,
      With interest repaid her glances,
      And answered all her kind advances.
      Thus sip they from the goblet's brink
      Each other's kisses while they drink;
      Which with the sparkling wine combined,
      Quick passage to the heart did find.
      Then Pamphilus an apple broke,
      And at her bosom aim'd the stroke;
      While she the fragment kiss'd and press'd,
      And hid it wanton in her breast.
      But I, be sure, was in amaze,
      To see my sister's artful ways;
      "These are returns," I said, "quite fit
      To me, who nursed you when a chit.
      For shame, lay by this envious art;--
      In this to act a sister's part?"
      But vain were words, entreaties vain,
      The crafty witch secured my swain.--
      By heavens, my sister does me wrong
      But oh! she shall not triumph long;
      Well Venus knows I'm not in fault--
      'Twas she who gave the first assault;
      And since our peace her treachery broke,
      Let me return her stroke for stroke.
      She'll quickly feel, and to her cost,
      Not all their fire my eyes have lost--
      And soon with grief shall she resign
      Six of her swains for one of mine.




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