To a Cat
Nelly, methinks, ’twixt thee and me,
There is a kind of sympathy;
And could we interchange our nature,—
If I were cat, thou human creature,—
I should, like thee, be no great mouser,
And thou, like me, no great composer;
For, like thy plaintive mews, my muse,
With villainous whine doth fate abuse,
Because it has not made me sleek
As golden down on Cupid’s cheek;
And yet thou canst upon the rug lie,
Stretch’d out like snail, or curl’d up snugly,
As if thou wert not lean or ugly;
And I, who in poetic flights
Sometimes complain of sleepless nights
Regardless of the sun in heaven,
Am apt to dose till past eleven.
The world would just the same go round
If I were hang’d and thou wert drown’d;
There is one difference, ’tis true,—
Thou dost not know it, and I do.