About the Poem
About the poet
In spite of needing to earn a living as a kitchen maid and her death from measles at the age of...
With walking sick, with curtseys lame,
And frighted by the scolding dame,
Poor Mira once again is seen
Within the bounds of Goslin-Green.
O Artemisia! dear to me
As to the lawyer golden fee;
Whose name dwells pleasant on my tongue,
And first and last shall grace my song;
Receive within your friendly door
A wretch that vows to rove no more.
In some close corner let me hide,
Remote from compliments and pride;
Where morals grave, or sonnets gay,
Delude the guiltless, cheerful day;
Where we a sprightly theme may find,
Besides enquiring where’s the wind,
Or whispering who and who’s together,
And criticising on the weather;
Where careless creatures such as I,
May ‘scape the penetrating eye
Of students in physiognomy;
Who read your want of wit or grace
Not from your manners, but your face;
Whose tongues are for a week supplied
From one poor mouth that’s stretched too wide;
Who greatly blame a freckled hand,
A skinny arm, full shoulders; and,
Without a microscope, can spy
A nose that’s placed an inch awry.
In vain to gloomy shades you flee,
Like mice, in darkness they can see;
In vain to glaring lights you run,
Their eyes can face a mid-day sun:
You’ll find no safety in retreat,
Like sharks they never mince their meat;
Their dreadful jaws they open throw,
And, if they catch you, down you go.
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