Classic Poem

The dove, that weak and timid bird,
Scant wit hath she her nest to build;
Unlike the pie, whose house well lined
Within, and strong with labor skilled,
Might seem a palace Yet the dove
Will to herself appropriate
The magpie's nest, and snug therein
Dwell in contentment with her mate.

My sweet, thou art the tender dove!
Hath fate's decree then nought more fair
For thee than in these barren fields
A peasant's hut and life to share?
My lands are wide, my halls are high,
And steeds and cars obey my call;
My dove, within my magpie nest,
Thou shalt be mistress of them all.