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Poem by John Gay
To My Chair
Thou faithful vassal to my wayward will. Thou patient midwife to my labouring skill! My pen and ink’s choice cell! my paper’s pillow! Thou steady friend, e’en were thy master mellow! My seat! – I visit not the proud St. Stephen; St. Stephen knows not me – so we are even. A seat, obtained not by a threat or bribe; But free, uninfluenced by an influenced tribe: Thou’rt my inheritance – I boast no other; My throne, unique! for thou hast not a brother. Surrounded by my friends, secure from foes, By thee upheld, I calmly seek repose. Soothed by thy comfort, my ideas spread – Aerial forms assemble round my head! Titles and honours court me – in the air! A proof that I’ve been building castles there! Days, months, and years I’ve musing sat in thee, And when grown pettish, thou ne’er answered’st me; A quality this is, so rarely seen, ’Twould be a jewel might adorn a queen. My study thou! – my favorite resting place! My tabernacle where I pray for grace! My spouse! for in thy arms I oft recline, And hope, tho’ pleased with progeny of thine, That no base offspring ever may be mine!
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