Classic Poem

Thou little creeping pretty vermin,
Whose station I cou'd wish my fate,
Your skin as sleek and sost as Ermin ,
Declares your easy happy state.

You ne'er complain your bounds are narrow,
Lord of the nutshell you command;
Where better food you find than marrow,
Bestow'd by Nature's bounteous hand;

Nor can you say provision's scanty,
Though but a single dish of meat;
Nor lords and dukes amidst their plenty
Do half so elegantly eat.

Yet maggots I have seen of pleasure,
Willing a gayer life to lead,
Forsake this estimable treasure,
To rove into a lady 's head.

And as in nutshells the wise creatures
The best and fairest kernells taint;
There prey on girls of finest features,
And to meer woman turn a saint .

The little winding wicked insect,
No sooner's lodg'd in miss's scull;
But slily he does the fair one infect,
And Cloe grows most fanciful.

With this nor that she is contented,
To day she loves, to morrow hates;
O how are girls to be lamented,
When maggots get into their pates!

Mamma perceives her daughter's failing,
And chides the girl in huffing strains;
But no reproof can be prevailing,
Whilst maggots feed on Cloe 's brains.