Why, cultivator, vainly moan to meThat I, a fruitful apple-tree whilom,For two autumnal seasons barren stand?Weighs me not down (as deemest thou) old ageNor am I floggèd by the hailstone hard,Nor yet my burgeon-gems a-budding newAre burnt by rigours of a wintry spring:Neither the winds nor rains nor yet the droughtsCaused just complaining to the apple-tree;Nor me the starling or the robber 'DawOr crow as crone old-grown or watery gooseOr thirsty raven e'er endamagèd.No! but from bearing scribblers' rubbish verseOn labouring branches comes mine every woe.