  But who was Ruth? methinks I hear you say. I’ll answer in mine own peculiar way: Her eyes were sparkling—as brilliant and bright As glittering stars in a clear frosty night, Her head was bedecked with beautiful hair, Her teeth well preserved—her complexion fair, With a smiling face—lips red as a cherry, She would laugh, sing, and chat, ever make merry; A leader of fashions, lively and gay, She turned day into night—night into day; Most fully developed, with full rounded arms, No wonder frail men were struck with her charms; In London, Paris, on Italia’s soil, She played all her games according to Hoyle, She homage received from men of all ranks, Returned them no love—but simply her thanks. A pure, spotless virgin, true! she was not, But a superb widow! without a spot Or blemish to mar; a Venus in form; No wonder she took her lovers by storm. |
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