103
Alas! it is a weary thing
To have such great renown;
Ten thousand bards my praises sing,
Through city, shire, and town.
From scribblers that earn pence a line,
To those that win a pound,
None think their poesy will shine,
Till it my praise resound.
And misses, in those curious books
Called "albums," and so forth,
Paint a blue marigold, whose looks
Proclaim her none of earth;
On which the parson, if he's young,
Or doctor, if he's handsome,
Must perpetrate a doleful song:
Oh! will no fairy ransom
My face from such a libel vile?
And clear my reputation,
So slurred by treachery and guile,
From such an imputation,
As that I set the twaddlers on
To so be-rhyme and saint me?
As I'm a flower, they know no more
Of me,—than those who paint me.
