The Retired Cat 



A poet's cat, sedate and grave 



As poet well could wish to have, 



Was much addicted to inquire 



For nooks to which she might retire, 



And where, secure as mouse in chink, 



She might repose, or sit and think. 



I know not where she caught the trick, — 



Nature perhaps herself had cast her 



In such a mould philosophique, 



Or else she learn'd it of her Master. 



Sometimes ascending, debonair, 



An apple-tree, or lofty pear, 



Lodged with convenience in the fork, 



She watched the gardener at his work; 



Sometimes her ease and solace sought 



In an old empty watering-pot; 



There wanting nothing save a fan, 



To seem some nymph in her sedan, 



Apparell'd in exactest sort, 



And ready to be borne to Court. 



But love of change it seems has place, 

 Not only in our wiser race; 

 Cats also feel, as well as we, 

 That passion's force, and so did she. 



Her climbing she began to find 

 Exposed her too much to the wind, 

 144 



THE CAT! 



