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ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH.
This cap, that so stately appears,
With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems by the crest that it rears
Ambitious of brushing the sky: This cap
my cousin I owe; She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreathed into an elegant bow,
The ribbon with which it is tied.
This wheel-footed studying chair,
Contrived both for toil and repose, Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair,
In wbich I both scribble and doze, Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,
And rival in lustre of that In which, or Astronomy lies,
Fair Cassiopeïa sat:
These carpets, so soft to the foot,
Caledonia's traffic and pride! Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot,
Escaped from a cross-country-ride! This table and mirror within,
Secure from collision and dust, At which I oft shave cheek and chin,
And periwig nicely adjust:
This moveable structure of shelves,
For its beauty admired and its use, And charged with octavos and twelves,
The gayest I had to produce ; Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,
My poems enchanted I view, And hope, in due time, to behold
My Iliad and Odyssey too:
This china, that decks the alcove,
Which here people call a boufet, But what the gods call it above
Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet: These curtains, that keep the room warm,
Or cool, as the season demands, Those stoves, that for pattern and forin,
Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands :
All these are not half that I owe
from our earliest youth To me ever ready to show
Benignity, friendship, and truth; For Time, the destroyer, declared,
And foe of our perishing kind, If even her face he has spared,
Much less could he alter her mind,
Thus compass'd about with the goods
And chattels of leisure and ease, I indulge my poetical moods
In many such fancies as these;
And fancies I fear they will seem
Poets' goods are not often so fine; The poets will swear that I dream,
When I sing of the splendour of mine.
TO MY COUSIN,
ANNE BODH A M,
RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE,
MADE BY HERSELF.
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
Than plaything for a nurse,
I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
For richest rogues to win it;
The best things kept within it.
TO MRS. KING.
On her kind Present to the Author, a Patch-work
Counterpare of her own making.
The Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Both on his heart and head,
Who deigns to deck his bed.
A bed like this, in ancient time,
(As Homer's epic shows,)
For Jove and Juno rose.
Less beautiful, however gay,
Receives the weary swain,
Till roused to toil again.
What labours of the loom I see!
Should every maiden come
The bell would toll for some.
And oh, what havoc would ensue!
All in a moment fled !
Each pocketing a shred.
Thanks, then, to every gentle fair,
As bird of borrow'd feather,
Who put the whole together,