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Poem	THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours, Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, To weave fantastic garlands for my head: But far, far happier is the lot of those Who never learn'd her dear delusive art; Which, while it decks the head with many a rose, Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart. For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove, Points every pang, and deepens every sigh Of mourning friendship or unhappy love. Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost, If those paint sorrow best--who feel it most!
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