Anacreontic To A Plumassier.

Fine and feathery artisan, Best of Plumists (if you can With your art so far presume) Make for me a Prince's Plume— Feathers soft and feathers rare, Such as suits a Prince to wear. First thou downiest of men, Seek me out a fine Pea-hen; Such a Hen, so tall and grand, As by Juno's side might stand, If there were no cocks at hand. Seek her feathers, soft as down, Fit to shine on Prince's crown; If thou canst not find them, stupid! Ask the way of Prior's Cupid. Ranging these in order due, Pluck me next an old Cuckoo; Emblem of the happy fates Of easy, kind, cornuted mates. Pluck him well—be sure you do— Who wouldn’t be an old Cuckoo, Thus to have his plumage blest, Beaming on a Royal crest? Bravo, Plumist!—now what bird Shall we find for Plume the third? You must get a learned Owl, Bleakest of black-letter fowl— Bigot bird that hates the light, Foe to all that's fair and bright. Seize his quills, (so formed to pen Books that shun the search of men; Books that, far from every eye, In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,) Stick them in between the two, Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo. Now you have the triple feather, Bind the kindred stems together With a silken tie whose hue Once was brilliant Buff and Blue; Sullied now—alas, how much! Only fit for Yarmouth's touch. There—enough—thy task is done; Present, worthy George's Son; Now, beneath, in letters neat, Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.