A Finch, whose tongue knew no control,
  With golden wing and satin poll,
  A last year’s bird who ne’er had tried
  What marriage means, thus pert replied: 
  “Methinks the gentleman,” quoth she,
  “Opposite in the appletree,
  By his good will would keep us single,
  Until yonder heavens and earth shall mingle,
  Or (which is likelier to befall)
  Until death exterminate us all. 
  I marry without more ado,
  My dear Dick Redcap; what say you?”

  Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling;
  With many a strut and many a sidling,
  Attested, glad, his approbation
  Of an immediate conjugation. 
  Their sentiments so well expressed
  Influenced mightily the rest;
  All paired, and each pair built a nest.

  But though the birds were thus in haste,
  The leaves came on not quite so fast,
  And Destiny, that sometimes bears
  An aspect stern on man’s affairs,
  Not altogether smiled on theirs. 
  The wind, of late breathed gently forth,
  Now shifted east and east by north;
  Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,
  Could shelter them from rain or snow;
  Stepping into their nests, they paddled,
  Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled,
  Soon every father-bird and mother
  Grew quarrelsome and pecked each other,
  Parted without the least regret,
  Except that they had ever met,
  And learned in future to be wiser
  Than to neglect a good adviser.

      WILLIAM COWPER

  The Poet, the Oyster, and Sensitive Plant

  An Oyster cast upon the shore
  Was heard, though never heard before,
  Complaining in a speech well worded,
  And worthy thus to be recorded: 
    “Ah, hapless wretch comdemn’d to dwell
  Forever in my native shell,
  Ordain’d to move when others please,
  Not for my own content or ease,
  But toss’d and buffeted about,
  Now in the water, and now out. 
  ’Twere better to be born a stone
  Of ruder shape and feeling none,
  Than with a tenderness like mine,
  And sensibilities so fine! 
  I envy that unfeeling shrub,
  Fast rooted against every rub.” 
  The plant he meant grew not far off,
  And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
  Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
  And with asperity replied. 
    ("When,” cry the botanists, and stare,
  “Did plants call’d Sensitive grow there?”
  No matter when—­a poet’s muse is
  To make them grow just where she chooses): 
    “You shapeless nothing in a dish,
  You that are but almost a fish,
  I scorn your coarse insinuation,
  And have most plentiful occasion
  To wish myself the rock I view,
  Or such another dolt as you. 
  For many a grave and learned clerk,
  And many a gay unlettered spark,
  With curious touch examines me
  If I can feel as well as he;
  And when I bend, retire, and shrink,