Talk not of gems, the orient list, The diamond, topaz, amethyst, The emerald mild, the ruby gay; Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway! She hath a way, with her bright eye, Their various lustre to defy, The jewel she and the foil they, So sweet to look Anne hath a way.
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway, To make grief bliss Anne hath a way.
But were it to my fancy given
To rate her charms, I'd call them Heaven;
For though a mortal made of clay,
Angels must love Anne Hathaway.
She hath a way so to control
To rupture the imprisoned soul,
And sweetest Heaven on earth display,
That to be Heaven Anne hath a way!
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway, To be Heaven's self Anne hath a way.
This little poem is by Charles Dibdin (17481814), the writer of about 1200 sea-songs, at one time great favorites with sailors. It appeared, in 1792, in his long-forgotten novel, "Hannah Hewit, or the Female Crusoe," and Sir Sidney Lee conjectures that it may have been composed on the occasion of the Stratford jubilee of 1769, in the organization of which Dibdin aided the great actor, David Garrick. In the "Poems of
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