The Fair Thief

I TELL, with equal truth and grief, That little Kit's an arrant thief; Before the urchin well could go, She stole the whiteness of the snow; And more—that whiteness to adorn, She stole the blushes of the morn; Stole all the softness Aether pours, On primrose buds, in vernal show'rs. There's no repeating all her wiles, She stole the Graces winning smiles; 'Twas quickly seen she robb'd the sky, To plant a star in either eye; She pilfer'd orient pearl for teeth, And stole the cow's ambrosial breath; The cherry, steep'd in morning dew, Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store, To which, in time, she added more; At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen Her air, and love-commanding mien; Stole Juno's dignity, and stole, From Pallas, sense to charm the soul; She sung—amaz'd the syrens heard, And, to assert their voice, appear'd: She play'd—the muses from their hill, Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill; Apollo's wit was next her pray, And then the beams that light the day; While Jove, her pilfering thefts to crown, Pronounc'd these beauties all her own; Pardon'd her crimes, and prais'd her art; And t' other day she stole—my heart.

Cupid! if lovers are thy care, Revenge thy votary on the fair; Do justice on her stolen charms, And let her prison be—my arms.