XXXIV. TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM HER POOR KINSMAN. FAIR maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride- Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. A TASK AD LIBITUM. TO A LADY. You bid me write, and yet propose no theme. Or issue forth with chiming hue and cry, In chase of butterflies? Or shall I rather, In gentler figure, make believe to hang That every gale may prattle with its strings? 'Tis strange that any bard should lack a theme In such a world of wonders. Look abroad, and within you: Around you, and above you, To the gross sense of worldlings.—Aye, I grant |