That yieldeth no such rich perfume?
The jessamine and fragrant rose
Surpass thee far, yet humbler those:
Nor does the woodbine e’er pretend
To cheer or to console a friend.
Cease, cease to promise happiness—
What widow’s desolate distress,
Or aged parent’s troubled soul
Hast thou been able to control?
Thou pretty groveler on the ground,