But toff'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
'Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And fenfibilities fo fine!
I envy that unfeeling fhrub,
Fast rooted against every rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the fneer with fcorn enough:
Was hurt, difgufted, mortified,
And with afperity replied:
When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants call'd Senfitive grow there?
No matter when-a poet's muse is
To make them grow juft where she chooses.
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almoft a fish,
I fcorn your coarfe infinuation,
And have moft plentiful occafion
To with myself the rock I view,
Or fuch another dolt as you :
many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;
And when I bend, retire, and fhrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think!
Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't!)
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
fine fenfe, he faid, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deferves not, if fo foon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount
Are all upon your own account.
You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from
every ill befide.
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants, that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,
Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all—not you.
The nobleft minds their virtue prove
By pity, fympathy, and love:
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.
His cenfure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.
Written in a time of Affliction.
H happy fhades—to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the fcene that offers reft, And heart, that cannot reft, agree!
This glaffy stream, that spreading pine,
Thofe alders quivering to the breeze,
Might foothe a foul lefs hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable care
Foregoes not what the feels within, Shows the fame fadness every where,
And flights the season and the scene.
For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While peace poffeff'd these filent bowers,
Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has loft its beauties and its powers.
The faint or moralift should tread
This mofs-grown alley mufing, flow;
They feek like me the fecret fhade,
But not like me to nourish woe!
Me fruitful scenes and profpects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments paft,
And those of forrows yet to come.
MUTUAL FORBEARANCE
Neceffary to the Happiness of the Married State.
HE lady thus addreff'd her spouse-
What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means large enough; and was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,
Those hangings with their worn-out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are fuch an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen.
-Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark :
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engaged myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock ftrikes four.
You are so deaf, the lady cried,
(And raised her voice, and frown'd befide)
You are fo fadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you hear?
Difmifs poor Harry! he replies;
Some people are more nice than wife,
For one flight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride whip and spur,
'Twas but a mile-your favourite horse
Will never look one hair the worfe.
Well, I proteft 'tis past all bearing-
Child! I am rather hard of hearing-
Yes, truly-one must scream and bawl:
I tell you, you can't hear at all!
Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.
Alas! and is domestic strife,
That foreft ill of human life,
A plague fo little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful paffion,
trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happieft pair
Will find occafion to forbear;
And fomething every day they live
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
But if infirmities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish or a fenfe impair'd,
Are crimes fo little to be fpared,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult, and inteftine war.
The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declenfion, Becomes not weary of attention;
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