3 Feb 2012

PEACOCK FEATHER


Those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties, with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art. 







For everything seemed resting on his nod, As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, Who were accustomed, as a sort of god, To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad (That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,) With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt How power could condescend to do without.




Fly pride, says the peacock: mistress, that you know.








To frame the little animal, provide All the gay hues that wait on female pride: Let Nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire The shining belles of the fly require; The peacock's plumes thy tackle must not fail, Nor the dear purchase of the sable's tail.