Yielding a balm for human woe,           

             I less than ever could forego;           

             More prized, more needed every hour!           

             Perchance it dies for want of care,           

             But as it withers, I despair!           

                        

            

            

       XII.     

 To the late Lady Rouse Boughton.     

             'Tis said, that jealous of a name           

             We all would praise confine,           

             And choke the leading path to fame           

             In our peculiar line.           

                        

             But vainly should detraction preach           

             If once I made it known,           

             The art of pleasing thou would'st teach           

             Acknowledg'd for thy own.           

                        

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