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Poem by Ann Taylor
AH, Mary! what, do you for dolly not care? And why is she left on the floor? Forsaken, and cover'd with dust, I declare; With you I must trust her no more. I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly, When on your birthday she was sent; Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly? Was that, do you think, what I meant? With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted, And trimm'd it so pretty with pink; But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted: Her nurse quite forgets her, I think. Suppose now–for Mary is dolly to me, Whom I love to see tidy and fair– Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see, In tatters, and comfortless there. But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear, Nor cares for her negligent nurse: If I were as careless as you are, I fear, Your lot, and my fault, would be worse. And therefore it is, in my Mary, I strive To check every fault that I see: Mary's doll is but waxen–mamma's is alive, And of far more importance than she.
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