SENT TO A LADY WHO WAS GOING TO A BALL
May health brace your nerves, as I find you’re for gadding,
And Care drop the end of his tether,
And stately dame Conscience give license for madding,
And toss up your heart like a feather.
My heart, my good lady, to mirth is no foe,5
And many the joys which it feels;
My heart—why it danced thirty summers ago,
But I never could dance with my heels.