‘ Nature's first wants hard labour should supply;
‘ But should it fail,‘ twill be too late to fly.
‘ Some Summers hence, if nought our loves annoy,
‘ The image of my Jane may lisp her joy;
‘ Or, blooming boys with imitative swing
‘ May mock my arm, and make the Anvil ring;
‘ Then if in rags.— But, O my heart, forbear,—
‘ I love the Girl, and why should I despair?
‘ And that I love her all the village knows;
‘ Oft from my pain the mirth of others flows;
‘ As when a neighbour's Steed with glancing eye
‘ Saw his par'd hoof supported on my thigh:
‘ Jane pass'd that instant; mischief came of course;
‘ I drove the nail awry and lam'd the Horse;
‘ The poor beast limp'd: I bore a Master's frown,
‘ A thousand times I wish'd the wound my own.
‘ When to these tangling thoughts I've been resign'd,
‘ Fury or languor has possess'd my mind,