The poem
OVER the meadows, and down the stream,
And through the garden-walks straying, He plucks the flowers that fairest seem;
His throbbing heart brooks no delaying. His maiden then comes--oh, what ecstasy! Thy flowers thou giv'st for one glance of her eye!
The gard'ner next door o'er the hedge sees the youth: "I'm not such a fool as that, in good truth; My pleasure is ever to cherish each flower, And see that no birds my fruit e'er devour. But when 'tis ripe, your money, good neighbour! 'Twas not for nothing I took all this labour!" And such, methinks, are the author-tribe.
The one his pleasures around him strews,
That his friends, the public, may reap, if they choose; The other would fain make them all subscribe,
1776.*