Sent with a Flower-Pot Begging a Slip of Geranium

I’ve sent my empty pot again To beg another slip; The last you gave, I’m grieved to tell December’s frost did nip. I love fair Flora and her train But nurse her children ill; I tend too little, or too much; They die from want of skill. I blush to trouble you again, Who’ve served me oft before; But, should this die, I’ll break the pot, And trouble you no more.