Once more he'd go; full resolute awhile,
But heard his native Bells on every stile;
The sound recall'd him with a pow'rful charm,
The Heath wide open'd, and the day was warm;
There, where a bed of tempting green he found,
Increasing anguish weigh'd him to the ground;
His well-grown limbs the scatter'd Daisies press'd,
While his clinch'd hand fell heavy on his breast.
‘ Why do I go in cruel sport to say,
“I love thee, Jane; appoint the happy day?”
‘ Why seek her sweet ingenuous reply,
‘ Then grasp her hand and proffer — poverty?
‘ Why, if I love her and adore her name,
‘ Why act like time and sickness on her frame?
‘ Why should my scanty pittance nip her prime,
‘ And chace away the Rose before its time?
‘ I'm young,‘ tis true; the world beholds me free;
‘ Labour ne'er show'd a frightful face to me;