Sure ’tis all false what poets fondly tell Of rural innocence and village love; Else had thy simple annals, Nethercombe, Who bosom’d in the vale below dost look This morn so cheerful, been unstain’d with crimes, Which the pale rustic shudders to relate. There lived, the blessing of her father’s age,— I fable not, nor will with fabled names Varnish a melancholy tale all true,— A lowly maid; lowly, but like that flower, Which grows in lowly place, and thence has name, Lily o’ the vale, within her parent leaves As in retreat she lives; yet fair and sweet Above the gaudiest Blooms, that flaunt abroad, And play with every wanton breath of Heaven. Thus innocent, her beauties caught the eye Of a young villager, whose vows of love Soon won her easy faith: her sire meantime, Alas! nor knowing nor suspecting ought, Till that her shape, erewhile so graceful seen, (Dian first rising after change was not More delicate) betray’d her secret act, And grew to guilty fulness: then farewell Her maiden dignity, and comely pride, And virtuous reputation. But this loss Worse follow’d, loss of shame, and wilful wreck Of what was left her yet of good, or fair, Or decent: now her meek and gentle voice To petulant turn’d; her simply-neat attire To sluttish tawdry: her once timid eye Grew fix’d, and parley’d wantonly with those It look’d on. Change detestable! For she, Erewhile the light of her fond father’s house, Became a grievous darkness: but his heart Endured not long; all in despair he went Into the chambers of the grave, to seek A comfortless repose from sorrow and shame. What then befell this daughter desolate? For He, the partner of her earliest fault, Had left her, false perhaps, or in dislike Of her light carriage. What could then befall, What else, but of her self-injurious life The too sad penance—hopeless penury, Loathsome disease unpitied, and thereto The brand of all-avoided infamy Set on her, like the fearful token o’er A plague-infested house:—at length to death Impatient and distract she made bold way.