Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces :: :: University of Virginia Library

O be thou keen to guess when Flattery's near!
His face is not the shadow of his heart;
The Court is all for lucre, like the mart,
And fraught with perils that a king should fear—
Trust not the flatterer's hollow sympathy
For should'st thou fathom that dishonest sound,
The line would rise with noisome clays hung round
And not the fruitful loam of love for thee:
O ill-starr'd royalty! Love's balmy sighs
Where Truth breathes on us from her sweetest shrine—
The access to all pure delights and ties,—
Say are they less the peasant's lot than thine?
Beyond the Shepherd's bliss thou can'st not rise
And many snares to steal ev'n that combine.