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Poor Robin yet is flowerless ; but how gay 
With his red stalks upon this sunny day! 
And as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content 
With a hard bed, and scanty nourishment, 
Mix’d with the green, some shine, not lacking 
power 
To rival Summer’s brightest scarlet flower ; 
And flowers they might well seem to passers-by, 
If look’d at only with a careless eye; 
Flowers, or a richer produce, (did it suit 
The season,) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit. 
But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, 
Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought ? 
Is the string touch’d in prelude to a lay 
Of pretty fancies that would round him play 
When all the world acknowledged elfin sway ? 
Or does it suit our humour to commend 
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, 
Whose practice teaches, spite of names, to show 
Bright colours, whether they deceive or no? 
Nay, we would simply praise the free good will 
With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill, 
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill ; 
Cheerful alike, if bare of flowers, as now, 
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow : 
Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, 
And such as lift their foreheads over-prized, 
