An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand
That sowed the flower, he preferred—
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path—
Or played his chosen tune—
On Lute the least—the latest—
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe’er delighted it,
I never would let go—
The foot to bear his errand—
A little Boot I know—
Would leap abroad like Antelope—
With just the grant to do—
His weariest Commandment—
A sweeter to obey,
Than ‘Hide and Seek’—
Or skip to Flutes—
Or all Day, chase the Bee—
Your Servant, Sir, will weary—
The Surgeon, will not come—
The World, will have its own—to do—
The Dust, will vex your Fame—
The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay—
That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me—
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first—to me.