At ten o'clock your maid awakes you;
⁠You breakfast when she's done your hair;
At twelve the groom arrives and takes you
⁠In Rotten Row to breathe the air.
From twelve to one you ride with vigor;
⁠Your horse how gracefully you sit;
Your habit, too, shows off your figure,
⁠As all your cavaliers admit.
One other habit I could mention —
⁠I hope your feelings won't be hurt,
But you receive so much attention,
⁠I sometimes fancy you're a flirt.
Of course you're not annoyed, I merely would indite
Your life as you lead it by day and night.

At two you've lunch; at three it's over,
⁠And visitors in shoals arrive;
Admirers many, perhaps a lover —
⁠Your next event is tea at five.
At six o'clock you go out driving
⁠From Grosvenor to Albert Gate,
To occupy yourself contriving
⁠Till dinner time comes round at eight.
Each hour as now the night advances
⁠Some fresh attraction with it brings;
A concert followed by some dances —
⁠The opera, if Patti sings.

At twelve you waltz; at one you've leisure
⁠To try some chicken and champagne;
At two you do yourself the pleasure
⁠Of starting off to waltz again.
At three your partners hate each other —
⁠You scarcely know which loves you best;
Emotion you have none to smother,
⁠But lightly with them all you jest.
At four your chaperon gives warning
⁠That it is really time to go;
You wish good night, and say next morning
⁠At twelve you'll meet them in the Row.

My darling, you're so very pretty,
⁠I've often thought, upon my life,
That it would be a downright pity
⁠To look upon you as a wife.
I don't think your ideas of marriage
⁠With those of many would accord,
The opera, horses, and a carriage,
⁠Are things so few men can afford.
And then you need so much devotion —
⁠To furnish it who would not try?
But each would find it, I've a notion,
⁠Too much for one man to supply.
Of course you're not annoyed, I merely would indite
Your life as you lead it by day and night.

Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead,
⁠With nothing in the world to do,
But just to blow a shepherd's reed
⁠The silent season through,
And just to drive a flock to feed —
⁠Sheep, quiet, fond, and few!

Pleasant to breathe beside a brook,
⁠And count the bubbles — love-worlds — there;
To muse upon some minstrel's book,
⁠Or watch the haunted air;
To slumber in some leafy nook —
⁠Or, idle anywhere.

And then a draught of nature's wine,
⁠A meal of summer's daintiest fruit;
To take the air with forms divine;
⁠Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute;
Descending, if the night be fine,
⁠In a star-parachute.

Give me to live with love alone,
⁠And let the world go dine and dress:
For love hath lowly haunts — a stone
⁠Holds something meant to bless.
If life's a flower, I choose my own —
⁠'Tis "Love in Idleness"!

Her little face is white with woe,
⁠Her downcast eyes are wet;
She had not meant to grieve him so,
⁠At least, — at least, — not yet;
It was so pleasant to be wooed,
⁠So hateful to be won, —
Ah! why should many a merry mood
⁠End in so drear a one!

She draws the curtain back, and peers
⁠Into the world beyond;
The garden gleams in flowery tiers,
⁠The fish leap in the pond;
Behind there is a misty hill, —
⁠How grey it all has grown!
Perhaps it was her father's will,
⁠Perhaps it is her own.

He turns aside, — he pleads no more,
⁠But goes with drooping head;
A man is often wounded sore,
⁠Who dons a coat of red.
And so he sadly rides away,
⁠Slowly o'er hill and plain;
But, let us hope, some other day
⁠He will ride back again!