  He is carved in alabaster, he is called the Reading Boy, A cross-legged little pagan, pondering o’er the Siege of Troy; He’s a miniature Adonis, with a bandeau round his head, And he’s reading late and early when he ought to be in bed. He cons an ancient manuscript, he scanneth as a sage, But with all his mighty reading, never yet hath turned a page; Never alabaster side glance at the turtle in the bowl, Never alabaster wiggle, ’though I know he has a soul. I have watched him late and early, just an image out of Rome, And politely offered bookmarks to divert him from that tome; Yea, with aggravating gestures sought to turn aside his face, But not for pots of honey could you make him lose his place. There he sits in sweet perfection that the chisel did unveil, With the rapture of an angel up against a lively tale. But I’d give an old maid’s ransom, just to see that little wretch, Discard that Trojan magazine, and give a real good stretch. |
|
