Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine And sensibilities so fine! Ah, hapless wretch! condemnd to dwell Forever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease; But tossd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out. CowperThe Poet, the Oyster and Sensitive Plant.
I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but Ill take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. Much Ado About Nothing. Act II. Sc. 3. L. 20.
An oyster may be crossed in love! Who says A whales a bird?Ha! did you call my love? Hes here! hes there! hes everywhere! Ah me! hes nowhere! R. B. SheridanThe Critic. A Tragedy Rehearsed. Act III. Sc. 1.