Ah , Phœbe! how slily, love's arrow to barb,
You've stolen down stairs in your grandmamma's garb!
Your ringlet-graced head, and your stomacher flat,
The cut of your cloak, and the bend of your hat,
Your flounce and your ferbelow, all have confess'd
Your masquerade likeness to your Grandmamma West.

That necklace of coral I've seen all afloat
(Ere wreck'd by old Time) on your grandmamma's throat;
Her hands, alike gazed on by dandies and boors,
I've seen her fold often as now you fold yours;
While crowds have around her at Ranelagh press'd,
Allur'd by the beauty of Grandmamma West.

Hold, Phœbe! thou archest of heart-stealing girls,
Thy hat, and thy cloak, and thy lace, and thy pearls,
May not be cast off, till thy painter shall trace
The raiment antique, and thy juvenile face,
With thy ringlets and flounces that once gave a zest
To the now waning charms of your Grandmamma West.

'Tis done; now begone, and remember that Time,
By steps slow and sure, is corroding your prime.
An era shall come, spite of hopes and of fears,
When Phœbe shall be what she now appears,
A tidy old woman arrayed in her best,
A counterfeit true of her Grandmamma West.