THE CAT= 



He drew the curtain at his side, 



And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied; 



Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd 



Something imprisoned in the chest, 



And, doubtful what, with prudent care 



Resolved it should continue there. 



At length, a voice which well he knew, 



A long and melancholy mew, 



Saluting his poetic ears, 



Consoled him, and dispelled his fears. 



He left his bed, he trod the floor, 



He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, 



The lowest first, and, without stop, 



The rest in order to the top ; 



For 'tis a truth well known to most, 



That whatsoever thing is lost, 



We seek it, ere it come to light, 



In every cranny but the right. 



Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete 

 As erst with airy self-conceit, 

 Nor in her own fond apprehension 

 A theme for all the world's attention; 

 But modest, sober, cured of all 

 Her notions hyperbolical, 

 And wishing for a place of rest 

 Anything rather than a chest. 

 Then stepp'd the poet into bed, 

 With this reflection in his head. 

 147 



