To Miss F.

Where anything abounds, we find
That nobody will have it,
But where there’s little of the kind
Don’t all the people crave it?

If wives are evils as ’tis known
And wretchedly confest,
The man who’s wise will surely own
A little one is best.

The god of love’s a little wight
But beautiful as thought
Thou too art little, fair as light
And every thing, in short.

Oh happy girl! I think thee so,
For mark the poet’s song
“Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.”