Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 403, December 5, 1829 - Various - Страница 3

I tell with equal truth and grief,

That little C—'s an arrant thief,

Before the urchin well could go,

She stole the whiteness of the snow.

And more—that whiteness to adorn,

She snatch'd the blushes of the morn;

Stole all the softness aether pours

On primrose buds in vernal show'rs.

There's no repeating all her wiles,

She stole the Graces' winning smiles;

'Twas quickly seen she robb'd the sky,

To plant a star in either eye;

She pilfer'd orient pearl for teeth,

And suck'd the cow's ambrosial breath;

The cherry steep'd in morning dew

Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store

To which in time she added more;

At twelve she stole from Cyprus' Queen

Her air and love-commanding mien;

Stole Juno's dignity, and stole

From Pallas sense, to charm the soul;

She sung—amaz'd the Sirens heard

And to assert their voice appear'd.

She play'd, the Muses from their hill,

Marvell'd who thus had stole their skill;

Apollo's wit was next her prey,

Her next the beam that lights the day;

While Jove her pilferings to crown,

Pronounc'd these beauties all her own;

Pardon'd her crimes, and prais'd her art,

And t'other day she stole—my heart.

Cupid, if lovers are thy care,

Revenge thy vot'ry on this fair;

Do justice on her stolen charms,

And let her prison be—my arms.