She’d hear of no excuse in prose. 
The Doctor stood not to debate,
Glad to compound at any rate;
So, bowing, seemingly complied;
Though, if he durst, he had denied. 
But first, resolved to show his taste,
Was too refined to give a feast;
He’d treat with nothing that was rare,
But winding walks and purer air;
Would entertain without expense,
Or pride or vain magnificence: 
For well he knew, to such a guest
The plainest meals must be the best. 
To stomachs clogg’d with costly fare
Simplicity alone is rare;
While high, and nice, and curious meats
Are really but vulgar treats. 
Instead of spoils of Persian looms,
The costly boast of regal rooms,
Thought it more courtly and discreet
To scatter roses at her feet;
Roses of richest dye, that shone
With native lustre, like her own;
Beauty that needs no aid of art
Through every sense to reach the heart. 
The gracious dame, though well she knew
All this was much beneath her due,
Liked everything—­at least thought fit
To praise it par maniere d’acquit. 
Yet she, though seeming pleased, can’t bear
The scorching sun, or chilling air;
Disturb’d alike at both extremes,
Whether he shows or hides his beams: 
Though seeming pleased at all she sees,
Starts at the ruffling of the trees,
And scarce can speak for want of breath,
In half a walk fatigued to death. 
The Doctor takes his hint from hence,
T’ apologize his late offence: 
“Madam, the mighty power of use
Now strangely pleads in my excuse;
If you unused have scarcely strength
To gain this walk’s untoward length;
If, frighten’d at a scene so rude,
Through long disuse of solitude;
If, long confined to fires and screens,
You dread the waving of these greens;
If you, who long have breathed the fumes
Of city fogs and crowded rooms,
Do now solicitously shun
The cooler air and dazzling sun;
If his majestic eye you flee,
Learn hence t’ excuse and pity me. 
Consider what it is to bear
The powder’d courtier’s witty sneer;
To see th’ important man of dress
Scoffing my college awkwardness;
To be the strutting cornet’s sport,
To run the gauntlet of the court,
Winning my way by slow approaches,
Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches,
From the first fierce cockaded sentry,
Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry;
To pass so many crowded stages,
And stand the staring of your pages: 
And after all, to crown my spleen,
Be told—­’You are not to be seen:’ 
Or, if you are, be forced to bear
The awe of your majestic air. 
And can I then be faulty found,
In dreading this vexatious round? 
Can it be strange, if I eschew
A scene so glorious and so new? 
Or is he criminal that flies
The living lustre of your eyes?”

[Footnote 1:  The gentleman who brought the message.—­Scott.]