 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
ANACREONTIC
OLD Poets sing the Dame, to StoneConverted by Jove's radiant Son:
How Progne builds her clayey Cell
In Chimnies, where she once did dwell.
For me, (did Fate permit to use,
Whatever Forms our Fancies chuse)
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Still to reflect her beauteous Face;
I'd be the pure and limpid Wave,
In which my Fair delights to lave;
I'd be her Garment, still to hide
Her snowy Limbs, with decent Pride;
I'd be the Girdle, to embrace
The gradual Taper of her Wast;
I'd be her Tippet, still to press
The snowy Velvet of her Breast;
But if the rigid Fates denied
Such Ornaments of Grace and Pride,
I'd be her very Shoe, that she
With scornful Tread might trample me.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |