Says, ‘Well—­’tis more than one would think.’ 
  Thus life is spent! oh fie upon’t,
  In being touched, and crying—­’Don’t’!”
  A poet, in his evening walk,
  Overheard and checked this idle talk. 
  “And your fine sense,” he said, “and yours,
  Whatever evil it endures,
  Deserves not, if so soon offended,
  Much to be pitied or commended. 
  Disputes, though short, are far too long,
  Where both alike are in the wrong;
  Your feelings in their full amount
  Are all upon your own account.” 
    “You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
  Complain of being thus exposed,
  Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
  Save when the knife is at your throat. 
  Wherever driven by wind or tide,
  Exempt from every ill beside.” 
    “And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
  Who reckon every touch a blemish,
  If all the plants that can be found
  Embellishing the scene around,
  Should droop and wither where they grow,
  You would not feel at all, not you. 
  The noblest minds their virtue prove
  By pity, sympathy, and love: 
  These, these are feelings truly fine,
  And prove their owner half divine.” 
    His censure reached them as he dealt it. 
  And each by shrinking show’d he felt it.

      WILLIAM COWPER

  The Pineapple and the Bee

  The Pineapples, in triple row,
  Were basking hot, and all in blow. 
  A Bee of most deserving taste
  Perceived the fragrance as he pass’d. 
  On eager wing the spoiler came,
  And searched for crannies in the frame,
  Urged his attempt on every side,
  To every pane his trunk applied;
  But still in vain, the frame was tight,
  And only pervious to the light: 
  Thus having wasted half the day,
  He trimm’d his flight another way.

* * * * *

    Our dear delights are often such,
  Exposed to view, but not to touch;
  The sight our foolish heart inflames,
  We long for pineapples in frames;
  With hopeless wish one looks and lingers;
  One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;
  But they whom Truth and Wisdom lead,
  Can gather honey from a weed.

      WILLIAM COWPER

  Amelia and the Spider

    The muslin torn, from tears of grief
  In vain Amelia sought relief;
  In sighs and plaints she passed the day,
  The tattered frock neglected lay: 
  While busied at the weaving trade,
  A Spider heard the sighing maid,
  And kindly stopping in a trice,
  Thus offered (gratis) her advice: 
    “Turn, little girl, behold in me
  A stimulus to industry;
  Compare your woes my dear, with mine,
  Then tell me who should most repine;
  This morning, ere you’d left your room,
  The chambermaid’s relentless broom,
  In one sad moment that destroyed
  To build which thousands were employed.