OVER the meadows, and down the stream,And through the garden-walks straying, He plucks the flowers that fairest seem;His throbbing heart brooks no delaying.
His maiden then comes--oh, what ecstasy!
Thy flowers thou giv'st for one glance of her eye!
The gard'ner next door o'er the hedge sees the youth:
"I'm not such a fool as that, in good truth;My pleasure is ever to cherish each flower, And see that no birds my fruit e'er devour.
But when 'tis ripe, your money, good neighbour!
'Twas not for nothing I took all this labour!"And such, methinks, are the author-tribe.
The one his pleasures around him strews,That his friends, the public, may reap, if they choose;The other would fain make them all subscribe,1776.*-----
