A poet’s cat, sedate and grave,
as poet would wish to have,
was much addicted to enquire,
for nooks to which she might retire,
and where, secure as mouse in chink,
she might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught her trick,
nature perhaps herself had cast her,
in such a mold philosophique,
or else she learn’d it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
an apple tree or lofty pear,
lodg’d with convenience in the fork,
she watched the gard’ner at his work;
sometimes her ease and solace sought,
in an old empty wat’ring pot,
there wanting nothing, save a fan,
to seem some nymph in her sedan,
apparell’d in exactest sort,
and ready to be borne in court.
William Cowper (1731 – 1800)
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