To the same Lady saying — Sure, I never thought, and Commanding me to write on a Feather

Now I shall think; what Genius can refuse,
When you thus kindly Wing the flying Muse?
No boist'rous Winds my Soul's Emotions bear,
But you know, Madam, Feathers fly with Air.
I think sometimes, (by my best Thoughts,) 'tis true,
On my own wit, and on your Beauty too,
And think them much alike — I think I do.
Strange is your Female sway o'er thoughtful Men,
Strange! That your Feather should Command my Pen.
Rouz'd from a Musing fit, you often Cry,
You think on nothing; why, Just so do I.
Only by chance, for once, one thought I'll write,
Say, is the Feather, or the Fair more Light?