Oh why dear Sister, Why dear Brother,

About a trifle such a pother,

For (honor bright) I sprinkled you

With Nothing but Parnassian dew—

And had it not been wasted so,

But suffered o’er my page to flow,

What mighty pretty tales t’had told,

Of Cupids wiles, or Barons bold,

Of Vice disguised in Garb of pleasure,

Told in the Muses sweetest Measure,

Or Magic tales of fairy Land

Or Mermaids danding on the Strand,

For such My flighty Muses lore,

Oh well May I the loss deplore—

Then say no more of garters spoiled,

Of inky Apron, foot stool soiled,

Of sprinkled Skreen, or hearth rug spotted,

Let all this from your Minds be blotted,

Remember how I patient bore it,

Who had Most reason to deplore it.