HAREBELL. 
213 
While they press’d round her dwelling with 
far less decorum : 
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows, 
And the sight of this Fox-glove destroys her 
repose. 
She tires of her vesture, and swelling with 
spleen, 
Cries, “ Ne’er such a dowdy blue mantle was 
seen !” 
Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain, 
But thus to a Primrose begins to complain : 
“ I envy your mood, that can patient abide 
“ The respect paid that Fox-glove, his airs, 
and his pride: 
“ There you sit, still the same, with your 
colourless cheek ; 
“ But you have no spirit—would I were as 
meek.” 
The Primrose good-humour’d replied, “ If 
you knew 
“ More about him—(remember I’m older 
than you, 
“ And, better instructed, can tell you his tale) 
“You’d envy him least of all flowers in the vale: 
“ With all his fine airs and his dazzling show, 
“No blossom more baneful and odious can 
blow ; 
