Poetry Archives

Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate
  Hid away in an oaken chest,
And a Franklin platter of ancient date
  Beareth Amandy Baker’s crest;
What times soever I’ve been their guest,
  Says I to myself in an undertone:
“Of womenfolk, it must be confessed,
  These do I love, and these alone.”

Well, again, in the Nutmeg State,
  Dorothy Pratt is richly blest
With a relic of art and a land effete—
  A pitcher of glass that’s cut, not pressed.
And a Washington teapot is possessed
  Down in Pelham by Marthy Stone—
Think ye now that I say in jest
  “These do I love, and these alone?”

Were Hepsy Higgins inclined to mate,
  Or Dorcas Eastman prone to invest
In Cupid’s bonds, they could find their fate
  In the bootless bard of Crockery Quest.
For they’ve heaps of trumpery—so have the rest
  Of those spinsters whose ware I’d like to own;
You can see why I say with such certain zest,
  “These do I love, and these alone.”