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 it's 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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