ON PSYCHE by JONATHAN SWIFT

At two after noon for our Psyche inquire,
Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire:
So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle,
Which hath she most need of, a spur or a bridle?
Thus, a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race,
Yet would rather be hanged than he'd leave a warm place.
She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain;
But ever with prudence takes care of the main.
To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit;
For her taste is almost as refined as her wit.
To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market,
It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it.
Yet beware of her arts, for it plainly appears,
She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears.

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