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Poem	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.
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