To a fop

• Posted by mgr on July 27th, 2008 filed in Zeitdokumente
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THEY tell me, Cotilus, that you’re a beau:
What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know.
“A beau is one who, with the nicest care,
In parted locks divides his curling hair;
One, who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet
Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat;
Whose naked arms are smooth’d with pummice-stone,
And tost about with graces all his own:
A beau is one who takes his constant seat,
From morn till evening, where the ladies meet;
And ever, on some sopha hovering near,
Whispers some nothing in some fair-one’s ear;
Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day;
Still reads, and scribbles; seals, and sends away:
A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly prest
By the coarse garment of a neighbour guest;
Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found
At each good table in successive round:
A beau is one - none better knows than he
A race-horse and his noble pedigree -
Indeed? - why, Cotilus, if this be so,
What teasing trifling thing is called a beau!

Quoted from: Charles Abraham Elton: Specimens of the Classic Poets. Vol. III. London, 1814.

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