Shapes of Clay

You promised to paint me a picture,

Dear Mat,

And I was to pay you in rhyme.

Although I am loth to inflict your

Most easy of consciences, I'm

Of opinion that fibbing is awful,

And breaking a contract unlawful,

Indictable, too, as a crime,

A slight and all that.

If, Lady Unbountiful, any

Of that

By mortals called pity has part

In your obdurate soul—if a penny

You care for the health of my heart,

By performing your undertaking

You'll succor that organ from breaking—

And spare it for some new smart,

As puss does a rat.

Do you think it is very becoming,

Dear Mat,

To deny me my rights evermore

And—bless you! if I begin summing

Your sins they will make a long score!

You never were generous, madam,

If you had been Eve and I Adam

You'd have given me naught but the core,

And little of that.

Had I been content with a Titian,

A cat

By Landseer, a meadow by Claude,

No doubt I'd have had your permission

To take it—by purchase abroad.

But why should I sail o'er the ocean

For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion

All's bad that the critics belaud.

I wanted a Mat.

Presumption's a sin, and I suffer

For that:

But still you did say that sometime,

If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher—

That's more than enough) of rhyme

You'd paint me a picture. I pay you

Hereby in advance; and I pray you

Condone, while you can, your crime,

And send me a Mat.

But if you don't do it I warn you,

Dear Mat,

I'll raise such a clamor and cry

On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you

As mocker of poets and fly

With bitter complaints to Apollo:

"Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow,

Her beauty"—they'll hardly deny,

On second thought, that!