Song Hath A Catalogue Of Lovely Things Thy Kind Hath Oft Defiled, Whose Spite Misleads The World Too Often! Where The Poet Reads, As In A Fable, Of Old Envyings, Crows, Such As Thou, Which Hush The Bird That Sings, Or Kill It With Their Cawings; Thorns And Weeds, Such As Thyself, 'Midst Which The Wind Sows Seeds Of Flow'Rs, These Crush Before One Blossom Swings. But Here And There The Wisdom Of A School Unknown To These Hath Often Written Down "Fame" In White Ink The Future Hath Turned Brown; When Every Beauty, Heaped With Ridicule, In Their Ignoble Prose, Proved Their Renown, Making Each Famous, As An Ass Or Fool.