An Oyster cast upon the shore
  Was heard, though never heard before,
  Complaining in a speech well worded,
  And worthy thus to be recorded:
    "Ah, hapless wretch comdemn'd to dwell
  Forever in my native shell,
  Ordain'd to move when others please,
  Not for my own content or ease,
  But toss'd and buffeted about,
  Now in the water, and now out.
  'Twere better to be born a stone
  Of ruder shape and feeling none,
  Than with a tenderness like mine,
  And sensibilities so fine!
  I envy that unfeeling shrub,
  Fast rooted against every rub."
  The plant he meant grew not far off,
  And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
  Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
  And with asperity replied.
    ("When," cry the botanists, and stare,
  "Did plants call'd Sensitive grow there?"
  No matter when—a poet's muse is
  To make them grow just where she chooses):
    "You shapeless nothing in a dish,
  You that are but almost a fish,
  I scorn your coarse insinuation,
  And have most plentiful occasion
  To wish myself the rock I view,
  Or such another dolt as you.
  For many a grave and learned clerk,
  And many a gay unlettered spark,
  With curious touch examines me
  If I can feel as well as he;
 ............