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Oft on the dappled turf at ease

I sit and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising;

10

And many a fond and idle name

I give to thee, for praise or blame

As is the humour of the game,
While I am gazing.

15

A nun demure, of lowly port;

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next-and instantly
The freak is over,

The shape will vanish, and behold!
A silver shield with boss of gold
That spreads itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar-
And then thou art a pretty star,
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-
May peace come never to his nest

Who shall reprove thee!