Richard the Farmer's Answer

This morn, when at the inn I'd sold my hay, Give me, says I, the paper of to-day; But sure it struck me with a strange surprize, When Mary's letter met her Richard's eyes; For, tho' thy lines to me are always dear, I wonder'd how the devil they came there.

Much I admire th' expressions of thy love, Thy praise bestows a joy all joys above, Even that which yields such exquisite delight, When the ripe harvest meets my ravish'd sight.

Yet, dearest Mary, it is I should say, " Your breath is sweeter than the new-mown hay, " Your roguish eyes have stole my heart away." Since from my fields your likenesses you take, Mine from your kitchen give me leave to make.

Your eyes so soft, so delicately round, Are like two plumbs I've in a pudding found, The jet black plumbs their heighten'd lustre owe To the surrounding pudding's cheeks of snow.

Should I behold the table richly stor'd, And a bak'd pudding crown the tottering board, Believe me, Richard not a bit would taste, If Molly at the table was not plac'd: A pudding bak'd I ever did approve, But what's a pudding to a man in love? Love is a flame—indeed 'tis very hot; How my blood boils, like water in a pot? My inward pain my pale complexion speaks, Which once was browner than a bak'd ox cheek's; Cupud has pierc'd me with his sharpest dart, 'Tis just as if your spit went thro' my heart.

Alas! how tedious seems the livelong day, That keeps me from my Molly far away. I'd fly to thee, my love—but Dobbin's lame, Oh fate, thou lov'st at me thy darts to aim!

My father calls—one word, and then adieu— To his dear Mary Richard's ever true; Oh, how I long to see those lovely eyes! 'Tis all I ask—for others keep your pies.