ON PSYCHE

At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire,

Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire:

So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;

Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle?

Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race,

Yet would rather be hang'd 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.