The joy of man, the pride of brutes, <br />Domestic subject for disputes, <br />Of plenty thou the emblem fair, <br />Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care! <br />I saw thee raised to high renown, <br />Supporting half the British crown; <br />And often have I seen thee grace <br />The chaste Diana's infant face; <br />And whensoe'er you please to shine, <br />Less useful is her light than thine: <br />Thy numerous fingers know their way, <br />And oft in Celia's tresses play. <br />To place thee in another view, <br />I'll show the world strange things and true; <br />What lords and dames of high degree <br />May justly claim their birth from thee! <br />The soul of man with spleen you vex; <br />Of spleen you cure the female sex. <br />Thee for a gift the courtier sends <br />With pleasure to his special friends: <br />He gives, and with a generous pride, <br />Contrives all means the gift to hide: <br />Nor oft can the receiver know, <br />Whether he has the gift or no. <br />On airy wings you take your flight, <br />And fly unseen both day and night; <br />Conceal your form with various tricks; <br />And few know how or where you fix: <br />Yet some, who ne'er bestow'd thee, boast <br />That they to others give thee most. <br />Meantime, the wise a question start, <br />If thou a real being art; <br />Or but a creature of the brain, <br />That gives imaginary pain? <br />But the sly giver better knows thee; <br />Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.<br /><br />Jonathan Swift<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-horn/
