A Fan

From India's burning clime I'm brought,

With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.

Not Iris, when she paints the sky,

Can show more different hues than I:

Nor can she change her form so fast,

I'm now a sail, and now a mast.

I here am red, and there am green,

A beggar there, and here a queen.

I sometimes live in a house of hair,

And oft in hand of lady fair.

I please the young, I grace the old,

And am at once both hot and cold

Say what I am then, if you can,

And find the rhyme, and you're the man.