Poem by Lesbia Harford

* * *

He had served eighty masters. They'd have said
He "worked for these employers" to earn bread.
And they, if they had heard him, would have sneered
To brand him inefficient whom they feared.
For to know eighty masters is to know
What sort of thing men who are masters grow.

1. Suburban Dames
2. A lady and I were walking
3. My heart is a pomegranate full of sweet fancies
4. Why does she put me to many indignities
5. I love to see

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