Mignonne

Whate'er thou dost thou'rt dear. Uncertain troubles sanctify That magic well-spring of the willing tear, Thine eye. Thy jealous fear, With not the rustle of a rival near; Thy careless disregard of all My tenderest care; Thy dumb despair When thy keen wit my worship may construe Into contempt of thy divinity; They please me too! But should it once befall These accidental charms to disappear, Leaving withal Thy sometime self the same throughout the year, So glowing, grave and shy, Kind, talkative and dear As now thou sitt'st to ply The fireside tune Of that neat engine deft at which thou sew'st With fingers mild and foot like the new moon, O, then what cross of any further fate Could my content abate? Forget, then, (but I know Thou canst not so,) Thy customs of some prædiluvian state. I am no Bullfinch, fair my Butterfly, That thou should'st try Those zigzag courses, in the welkin clear; Nor cruel Boy that, fledd'st thou straight Or paused, mayhap Might catch thee, for thy colours, with his cap.