THE MOTHER, THE NURSE, &c.
153
The woman's blind, the mother cries;I see wit sparkle in his eyes.Lord! madam, what a squinting leer!No doubt the fairy hath been here. Just as she spoke, a pigmy spritePops through the key-hole, swift as light;Perch'd on the cradles top he stands,And thus her folly reprimands. Whence sprung the vain, conceited lie,That we the world with fools supply?What! give our sprightly race away,For the dull helpless sons of clay!Besides, by partial fondness shown,Like you we doat upon our own.Where yet was ever found a mother,Who'd give her booby for another?And should we change with human breed,Well night we pass for fools indeed.[1]
