FROM India's burning clime I'm brought, <br />With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught. <br />Not Iris, when she paints the sky, <br />Can show more different hues than I; <br />Nor can she change her form so fast, <br />I'm now a sail, and now a mast. <br />I here am red, and there am green, <br />A beggar there, and here a queen. <br />I sometimes live in house of hair, <br />And oft in hand of lady fair. <br />I please the young, I grace the old, <br />And am at once both hot and cold. <br />Say what I am then, if you can, <br />And find the rhyme, and you're the man.<br /><br />Jonathan Swift<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-lady-carteret/
