The opening lines come across like a guessing game. Each clue points to a different answer—Narcissus, a fan or a gown part, “yes,” a cradle, maybe a nightingale poet—and when you line up the first letters of those answers, you get a woman’s name. It’s a flirtatious little puzzle, as if the speaker is letting a select few in on the secret of who he’s talking about. Then the poem skips into a crowded ballroom and turns its eye to the chaos she causes. Men of every sort mob her, fighting like fools over a dropped handkerchief or a fallen pin, desperate to be the hero who hands it back. The other women, though, can hardly look at her—her prettiness threatens their own, and the air crackles with silent rivalry. The speaker’s voice stays amused and gently mocking, painting the absurdity of adoration and jealousy with a knowing grin. There’s no cruelty here, just a wry delight in watching one beautiful face set a whole room on edge.
The Dance — Summary
Take the name of the swain, a forlorn witless elf Who was chang'd to a flow'r for admiring himself. A part deem'd essential in each lady's dress With what maidens cry when they wish to say yes. A lullabye carriage, soft, cozy and light With the name of the Poet who sang on the night.
The queen of Cairo, all lovely and winning Whose blandishments ever kept Antony grinning. The flow'r whose odors unremittingly please: With the glory of forests, the king of the trees. To the prince of the fairies, a jealous old knave, Put the name of the tree that undid Mother Eve. To finish the whole, add that period of day When the linnet and thrush to repose hie away.
The initials of these, if adjusted with care. Will show you the fairest where thousands are fair. The sweet, pretty graces still hover about her And Cupid would die with vexation without her. When she swims in the dance or wherever she goes She's crowded by witlings, plain-fellows, and beaux Who throng at her elbow and tread on her toes.
If a pin or a hankerchief happen to fall To seize on the prise fills with uproar the ball; Such pulling and hawling & shoving & pushing As rivals the racket of 'key and the cushion;' And happy- thrice happy! too happy! the swain Who can replace the pin or bandana again.
Tho the fellows surround & so humbly adore her The girls on the contrary cannot endure her; Her beauty their beauty forever disgraces And her sweeter face still eclipses their faces- For no lov'ly girl can a lov'ly girl bear And fair ones are ever at war with the fair.
(Nancy Crooke)