Page:The Romance of Nature; or, The Flower-Seasons Illustrated.djvu/185

103 Alas! it is a weary thing

To have such great renown;

Ten thousand bards my praises sing,

Through city, shire, and town.

From scribblers that earn pence a line,

To those that win a pound,

None think their poesy will shine,

Till it my praise resound.

And misses, in those curious books

Called "albums," and so forth,

Paint a blue marigold, whose looks

Proclaim her none of earth;

On which the parson, if he's young,

Or doctor, if he's handsome,

Must perpetrate a doleful song:

Oh! will no fairy ransom

My face from such a libel vile?

And clear my reputation,

So slurred by treachery and guile,

From such an imputation,

As that I set the twaddlers on

To so be-rhyme and saint me?

As I'm a flower, they know no more

Of me,—than those who paint me.