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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