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 enclos'd,
Complain of being thus expos'd;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry 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 reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it,

THE SHRUBBERY.

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

I.

Oн, happy shades-to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!

How ill the scene, that offers rest,
And heart, that cannot rest, agree!

II.

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.

III.

But fix'd unalterable Care

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness ev'ry where, And slights the season and the scene.

IV.

For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,

While Peace possess'd these silent bow'rs, Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost it's beauties and it's pow'rs.

V.

The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley musing, slow; They seek like me the secret shade, But not like me to nourish wo!

VI.

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;

These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

I.

WHAT Nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,

And Winter is deck'd with a smile.

See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed,

Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

II.

"Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime,

A fortress to which she retreats

From the cruel assaults of the clime. While Earth wears a mantle of snow,

These pinks are as fresh and as gay, As the fairest and sweetest, that blow On the beautiful bosom of May.

III.

See how they have safely surviv'd
The frowns of a sky so severe;
Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late blowing rose
Seem'd grac'd with a livelier hue,

And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend such as you.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.

THE lady thus address'd her spouse —
What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means large enough; and was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,
Those hangings with their worn-out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,