‘A grov’ling paltry flow’r, and pale,
‘The jest of ev’ry nipping gale!
‘I am the youthful Poet’s theme,
‘Of me the bard delights to dream;
‘In lofty verse he sings my praise,
‘And paints me in his choicest lays;
‘But you, the early bud of care,
‘Are never seen to flourish there!’
The Primrose heard, with modest ear,
And, ‘Flow’r,’ it said, ‘tho’ sprung so near,