And then makes one expecting pause,----
Yet still he don't propose.

I wonder whether Bell or Bess,
It is he most admires,
Even Mistress Match'em cannot guess--
It really patience tires.
He hung, last night, o'er Bella's chair,
And things seem'd at a close--
To-day 'twas Bess was all his care,
But yet he don't propose.

He's gone to concert, play, and ball,
So often with them now,
That it must seem to one and all
As binding as a vow.
He certainly _does_ mean to take
One of the girls, and close
The life he leads--the flirting rake--
But yet he don't propose.

I often wonder what he thinks
We ask him here to do--
Coolly he Cockburn's claret drinks,
And wins from me at Loo.
For twenty months he's dangled on,
The foremost of their beaux,
While half-a-dozen else have gone,--
And still he don't propose.