[To Thomas Butts]: O! why was I born with a different face?

O! WHY was I born with a different face?

Why was I not born like the rest of my race?

When I look, each one starts; when I speak, I offend;

Then I’m silent and passive, and lose every friend.

Then my verse I dishonour, my pictures despise,

My person degrade, and my temper chastise;

And the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame;

All my talents I bury, and dead is my fame.

I am either too low, or too highly priz’d;

When elate I’m envied; when meek I’m despis’d.