You milliner! Creation done
Was there no decent world to run,
Or comet or small tidy moon,
But you must pipe your huckster's tune
Around and up and down our earth,
Exalting lack, decrying worth,
Impoverishing best with better,
Confounding creditor and debtor,
Or singing some dead girl immortal,
Or publishing a strange assortal
Of water, winds, and clouds, and skies,
And locks, and lips, and languid eyes?
And that's not all; for when we buy
You take our gold and shrug and sigh,
And say we had the thing before,
And having paid have nothing more
Than then we had. A many stars
And loves and glamours of old wars
You've sold me for their weight in ease
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