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.