‘You, Primrose! are not blest as I,
‘Who can delight each gazing eye;
‘Superior beauties I may claim,
‘But you were born to meet disdain!
‘That yellow tinge which courts the air,
‘Is nothing but the type of care!
‘Review my innocence and worth,
‘Know that I sprung from purer earth;
‘While you from coarser mould arose—
‘The truth your fallow visage shows