This Book, which, like its Author, You By the bare Outside only knew, (Whatever was in either Good, Not look'd in, or, not understood) Comes, as the Writer did too long, To be about you, right or wrong; Neglected on your Chair to lie, Nor raise a Thought, nor draw an Eye; In peevish Fits to have you say, See there! you're always in my Way! Or, if your Slave you think to bless, I like this Colour, I profess! That Red is charming all will hold, I ever lov'd it -- next to Gold. Can Book, or Man, more Praise obtain? What more could G--ge or S--te gain? Sillier than Gildon coud'st thou be, Nay, did all Jacob breath in thee, She keeps thee, Book! I'll lay my Head, What? throw away a Fool in Red: No, trust the Sex's sacred Rule; The gaudy Dress will save the Fool. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 41 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (FROM A WESTERNER'S POINT OF VIEW) by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE PROGRESS OF POESY; A PINDARIC ODE by THOMAS GRAY THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN by AESOP IMITATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE: PROGNE'S DREAM by JOHN ARMSTRONG STANZAS ON FINDING THE KEY OF AN OLD PIANO by E. JUSTINE BAYARD SONG, FR. A VISION OF GIORGIONE: FELICE'S SONG by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |