103 
Alas ! it is a weaay 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 shuTed 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. 
