With coyness she bats her forget-me-not eyes,
Her virtues all but a compromise.
Hiding her face behind a lacy fan,
Trying not to encourage this scandalous man.
Him with his sweet promises of happiness,
Filled with tender love and hot bliss.
Her society status, sallied if only they knew,
What her heart ached so to do.
She barely eighteen summers in age,
That date barely dry on the page.
He thirty summers I’m sure,
With intentions so less than pure.
And could she trust him with her heart,
Or forever be branded a tart?
Alas sweet love wins again,
Nothing to venture, nothing to gain.