She swells with pride to be so blest,
10And doth all other flowers disdain;
Yet weeps that dew which kissed her last,
To see her odours so surpass'd.
Poor flower! how far deceiv'd thou wert,
To think the riches of the morn,
Or all the sweets she can impart,
Could these or sweeten or adorn,
Since thou from them dost borrow scent,
And they to thee lend ornament!