Come, Tom. I would fain have our hostess
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I would fain have our hostess,
good Mother Goose,
learn how faithfully I have discharged
my duties as a godfather
in preparing you for the delights
to which your newly-found state of manhood
is about to call you.
So tell my Lady-Bishop of the game
what I did vow and promise in thy name.
One aim in all things to pursue:
my duty to myself to do.
(To Mother Goose)
Is he not apt?
And handsome, too.
What is thy duty to thyself?
To shut my ears to prude and preacher
and follow nature as my teacher.
What is the secret nature knows?
What Beauty is and where it grows.
Canst thou define the beautiful?
That source of pleasure to the eyes,
youth owns, wit snatches, money buys,
envy affects to scorn, but lies.
One fatal flaw it has: it dies.
Exact, my scholar.
What is pleasure then?
The idol of all dreams, the same
whatever shape it wear or name.
Whom flirts imagine as a hat,
old maids believe to be a cat.
One final question: love is...?
That precious word is like a fiery coal,
it burns my lips, strikes terror to my soul.
Will my scholar fail me?
No, no more!.
More wine, love?
Let me go.
Are you afraid?
Before it is too late.
See!, time is yours!.
The hours obey your pleasure.
Fear not, enjoy!.
You may repent at leisure.
(Tom sit down and drink)
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