My first is no proof of my second, Though my second's a proof of my first: If I were my whole I should tell you Quite freely my best and my worst.
One clue more: if you fail to discover My meaning, you're blind as a mole; But if you will frankly confess it, You show yourself clearly my whole.
2
My first may be the firstborn, The second child may be; My second is a texture light And elegant to see: My whole do those too often write Who are from talent free.
3
How many authors are my first! And I shall be so too Unless I finish speedily That which I have to do.
My second is a lofty tree And a delicious fruit; This in the hot-house flourishes-- That amid rocks takes root.
My whole is an immortal queen Renowned in classic lore: Her a god won without her will, And her a goddess bore.
4
Me you often meet In London's crowded street, And merry children's voices my resting-place proclaim. Pictures and prose and verse Compose me--I rehearse Evil and good and folly, and call each by its name. I make men glad, and I Can bid their senses fly, And festive echoes know me of Isis and of Cam. But give me to a friend, And amity will end, Though he may have the temper and meekness of a lamb.
