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Although I put away his life- 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. |