London astrologer, or, A young girl put to the blush/The Lady's Diary

THE LADY'S DIARY.

LECTURE’D by Pa and Ma o’er night,⁠
Monday, at ten, quite vex’d and jealous,
Reſolv'd in future to be right,
⁠and never liſten to the fellows!
Stitch'd half a wriſtband, read the text,
⁠receiv'd a note from Mrs. Rackit:
I hate the woman, ſhe ſat next,
⁠all church-time, to ſweet Captain Clackit.

Tueſday got ſcolded, did not care,
⁠the toaſt was cold, 'twas paſt eleven;
I dreamt the Captain, through the air,
⁠on Cupid's wings bore me to heav'n!
Pouted and din'd, dreſs'd, look'd divine,
⁠made an excuſe, got Ma to back it!
Went to the play, what joy was mine;
⁠talk'd loud & laugh'd with Captain Clackit.

Wedneſday came down, no lark ſo gay!
⁠the girl's quite alter'd, ſaid my Mother;
Cry'd Dad, I recollect the day
⁠when, Dearie, thou wert ſuch another.
Danc’d, drew a landſcape, ſkim’d a play,
⁠in the paper read that widow Flackit
To Gretna-Green had run away,
⁠the forward minx! with Captain Clackit.

Thurſday fell ſick; poor ſoul, ſhe’ll die;
⁠five doctors came with length’ned faces;
Each felt my pulſe; ah, me! cry’d I,
⁠are theſe my promis’d loves and graces!
Friday grew worſe; cry’d Ma, in pain,
⁠our day was fair, heav’n do not black it;
Where’s your complaint, love? In my brain,
⁠what ſhall I give you? Captain Clackit.

Early next morn a noſtrum came
⁠worth all their cordials, balms, and ſpices,
A letter; I had been to blame;
⁠the Captain’s truth brought on a criſis:
Sunday, for fear of more delays
⁠of a few clothes I made a packet,
And Monday morn ſlept in a chaiſe,
⁠and ran away with Captain Clackit.