Envy

This rose-tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignionet: And if this tree were discontent, Or wish'd to change its natural bent, It all in vain would fret.

And should it fret, you would suppose It ne'er had seen its own red rose, Nor after gentle shower Had ever smell'd it rose's scent, Or it could ne'er be discontent With its own pretty flower.

Like such a blind and senseless tree As I've imagin'd this to be, All envious persons are: With care and culture all may find Some pretty flower in their own mind, Some talent that is rare.