Sharp was the frost, the wind was high <br />And sparkling stars bedeckt the sky <br />Sly Dick in arts of cunning skill'd, <br />Whose rapine all his pockets fill'd, <br />Had laid him down to take his rest <br />And soothe with sleep his anxious breast. <br />'Twas thus a dark infernal sprite <br />A native of the blackest night, <br />Portending mischief to devise <br />Upon Sly Dick he cast his eyes; <br />Then straight descends the infernal sprite, <br />And in his chamber does alight; <br />In visions he before him stands, <br />And his attention he commands. <br />Thus spake the sprite-- hearken my friend, <br />And to my counsels now attend. <br />Within the garret's spacious dome <br />There lies a well stor'd wealthy room, <br />Well stor'd with cloth and stockings too, <br />Which I suppose will do for you, <br />First from the cloth take thou a purse, <br />For thee it will not be the worse, <br />A noble purse rewards thy pains, <br />A purse to hold thy filching gains; <br />Then for the stockings let them reeve <br />And not a scrap behind thee leave, <br />Five bundles for a penny sell <br />And pence to thee will come pell mell; <br />See it be done with speed and care <br />Thus spake the sprite and sunk in air. <br />When in the morn with thoughts erect <br />Sly Dick did on his dreams reflect, <br />Why faith, thinks he, 'tis something too, <br />It might-- perhaps-- it might be true, <br />I'll go and see-- away he hies, <br />And to the garret quick he flies, <br />Enters the room, cuts up the clothes <br />And after that reeves up the hose; <br />Then of the cloth he purses made, <br />Purses to hold his filching trade.<br /><br />Thomas Chatterton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sly-dick/
