122 
HAREBELL. 
One morning she saw, on the opposite side, 
A Fox-glove displaying his colours of pride: 
She gazed on his form, that in stateliness grew, 
And envied his height, and his brilliant hue; 
She mark’d how the flow’rets all gave way before him, 
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; 
“And the reason that flow’rets before him give way 
“ Is because they all hate him and shrink from his sway: 
“To stay near him long would be fading or death, 
“For he scatters a pest with his venomous breath; 
