Classic Poem

Thy Picture Vixen! thou hast sent me now,
Which I, for thy true Likeness, must allow;
I, by thy Cat, may best remember thee,
For like thee, when I wou'd approach her, she
Will Scratch, and Bite, will Mew, and Spit at me;
Yet, like thee, she will Purr about me too,
The more, the less I mind what she wou'd do;
And Fonder of me likewise will appear,
As the more heedless still I seem of her;
But she, when on my Knee, I'd have her sit,
Against her Will, will Mew, Scratch, Bite, or Spit;
And from me, with more haste, will frisk away,
The more I strive, to make her with me stay;
To Play with her, nor thee, can I prevail,
Tho' she, like thee, will Play with her own Tail;
Like thee, she's good for nothing, but to kill,
Like thee, most often does it, sitting still;
A Wanton Tyrant is she, like thee too,
And lets a while her creeping Pris'ner go;
Some Freedom seems to give him, but in vain,
To put it, by her Mercy, more in Pain,
And lets it loose, to pat it back again;
Gives it some Hopes, but more to torture it,
Still makes it trembling, in her Presence sit,
Uneasie in her Company to stay,
Yet dares not (for its Life) to run away;
Like thee, with what she means to kill, will Play;
To it, more cruel, by her short Reprieve,
Is she, which she does, more to plague it, give,
Than it from Torment, Death, Fear, to relieve;
So does her Pleasure of its Terror make,
Gives it some Hopes, but all from it to take;
Respites its Death, but with more Cruelty,
To make her Pris'ner die more painfully;
My Skin too she, for stroaking hers, will claw,
And scratch my Face, if I but touch her Paw;
The Wanton Puss of my Heart, are you so,
Who, but to kill me, pat me to you too,
Yet will not kill me quite, nor let me go;
Yet I, thy cruel Picture love to see,
Since, wer't not such, it like thee cou'd not be;
So, like thee, she does most in Playing kill,
Does take us more too, by her sitting still;
Her Eyes, like thine, are Piercing, Fierce, and Grey
And in the Darkest Night, can find her Prey;
She has a Tabby-Coat, as well as you,
And licks her Face all over (as you do)
E'er that, like thee, she does on Killing go;
And when I'd get her to sit on my Knee,
O'th' top o'th' House she will be straight with me;
Ab, even while she tastes of Love, will Squall,
Tho' she ne'er yet got Hurt by any Fall;
Stroaking her Furr, a Pleasure is to me,
As stroaking thine, wou'd Pleasure to me be;
So much thy Puss, thy Picture is (I find)
It, when I see it, brings thee to my mind,
To the same Actions, Humours, is inclin'd;
Purrs all the Day about me, Progs by Night,
For Raw Flesh, which she mumbles out of sight,
Mews, Scratches, Squalls, when she has most Delight.