The eggs of pheasants wry-nosed Tooly sells,
But ne'er so much as licks the speckled shells:
Only, if one prove addled, that he eats
With superstition, as the cream of meats.
The cock and hen he feeds; but not a bone
He ever picked, as yet, of anyone.
Upon Tooly
Robert Herrick
(1)
Poem topics: cream, prove, bone, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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