On a fine Crop of Peas being spoil'd by a Storm

When Morrice views his prostrate Peas, By raging Whirlwinds spread, He wrings his Hands, and in amaze He sadly shakes his Head.

Is this the Fruit of my fond Toil, My Joy, my Pride, my Chear! Shall one tempestuous Hour thus spoil The Labours of a Year!

Oh! what avails, that Day by Day I nurs'd the thriving Crop, And settl'd with my Foot the Clay, And rear'd the social Prop!

Ambition's Pride had spur'd me on All Gard'ners to excell; I often call'd them one by one, And boastingly would tell,

How I prepar'd the furrow'd Ground, And how the Grain did sow, Then challeng'd all the Country round For such an early Blow.

How did their Bloom my Wishes raise! What Hopes did they afford, To earn my honour'd Master's Praise, And crown his chearful Board!

Poor Morrice, wrapt in sad Surprize, Demands in sober Mood, Should Storms molest a Man so wise, A Man so just and good?

Ah! Morrice, cease thy fruitless Moan, Nor at Misfortunes spurn, Misfortune's not thy Lot alone; Each Neighbour has his Turn.

Thy prostrate Peas, which low recline Beneath the Frowns of Fate, May teach much wiser Heads than thine Their own uncertain State.

The sprightly Youth in Beauty's Prime, The lovely Nymph so gay, Oft Victims fall to early Time, And in their Bloom decay.

In vain th' indulgent Father's Care, In vain wise Precepts form: They droop, like Peas, in tainted Air, Or perish in a Storm.