Christian Milne

To love these books, and harmless tea, Has always been my foible, Yet will I ne’er forgetful be To read my Psalms and Bible. Travels I like, and history too, Or entertaining fiction; Novels and plays I’d have a few, If sense and proper diction. I love a natural harmless song, But I cannot sing like Handel; Deprived of such resource, the tongue Is sure employed — in scandal.

I’ve sent my empty pot again To beg another slip; The last you gave, I’m grieved to tell December’s frost did nip. I love fair Flora and her train But nurse her children ill; I tend too little, or too much; They die from want of skill. I blush to trouble you again, Who’ve served me oft before; But, should this die, I’ll break the pot, And trouble you no more.