I can bleat, or I can sing,
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the lovesick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice;
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out:
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I'm vext, can't keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear;
Much I dread the courtier's fate,
When his merit's out of date,
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.
XVI.
BY something form'd, I nothing am,
Yet every thing that you can name;
In no place have I ever been,
Yet every where I may be seen;
In all things false, yet always true,
I 'm still the same — but never new.
| Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear, | |
| Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear, | |
| Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear. |
