Mignonne

Whate'er thou dost thou'rt dear.
  Uncertain troubles sanctify
  That magic well-spring of the willing tear,
  Thine eye.
  Thy jealous fear,
  With not the rustle of a rival near;
  Thy careless disregard of all
  My tenderest care;
  Thy dumb despair
  When thy keen wit my worship may construe
  Into contempt of thy divinity;
  They please me too!
  But should it once befall
  These accidental charms to disappear,
  Leaving withal
  Thy sometime self the same throughout the year,
  So glowing, grave and shy,
  Kind, talkative and dear
  As now thou sitt'st to ply
  The fireside tune 
  Of that neat engine deft at which thou sew'st
  With fingers mild and foot like the new moon,
  O, then what cross of any further fate
  Could my content abate?
  Forget, then, (but I know
  Thou canst not so,)
  Thy customs of some prædiluvian state.
  I am no Bullfinch, fair my Butterfly,
  That thou should'st try
  Those zigzag courses, in the welkin clear;
  Nor cruel Boy that, fledd'st thou straight
  Or paused, mayhap
  Might catch thee, for thy colours, with his cap.