Imperfection

Nothing is perfect in this world of ours,
The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers;
Methinks the angels, who for our protection
Dwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection.

The tulip has no scent. The saying is:
Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz;
Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may be
Would have in time brought forth a thumping baby.

The haughty peacock has but ugly feet;
A woman may be witty and discreet,
And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary,
Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.

The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween,
Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’en
The marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus;
Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us).

In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes,
As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times;
Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis,
And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.

The fairest star that in the heavens has birth,
When it has caught a cold, straight falls to earth;
Prime cider of the barrel bears the traces,
And many a spot the sun’s bright face defaces.

And thou, much honour’d Madam, even thou
Faultless art not, nor free from failings now.
“What, then, is wanting?” askest thou and starest,--
A bosom, and a soul within it, fairest!