“With all thy wealth, a Guinea, in thine hand; “There with thy messmates quaff the muddy cheer, “And leave my _Lucy_ for thy Betters here.” ‘Revenge! Revenge!’ the angry Lover cried, Then sought the Nymph, and ‘Be thou now my Bride.’ Bride had she been, but they no Priest could move To bind in Law, the Couple bound by Love. What sought these Lovers then by day, by night? But stolen moments of disturb’d delight; Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly priz’d, Transports that pain’d and joys that agoniz’d: Till, the fond Damsel, pleas’d with Lad so trim, Aw’d by her Parent and entic’d by him; Her lovely form from savage power to save, Gave--not her Hand--but ALL she could, she gave. Then came the Day of shame, the grievous Night, The varying Look, the wandering Appetite; The Joy assum’d, while Sorrow dimm’d the eyes, The forc’d sad Smiles that follow’d sudden Sighs; And every art, long us’d, but us’d in vain, To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain. Too eager caution shews some danger’s near, The Bully’s bluster proves the Coward’s fear; His sober step, the Drunkard vainly tries, And Nymphs expose the failings they disguise. First, whispering _Gossips_ were in parties seen; Then louder _Scandal_ walk’d the Village-green; Next babbling _Folly_ told the growing ill, And busy _Malice_ dropt it at the Mill. “Go! to thy curse and mine,” the Father said, “Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed; “Want and a wailing Brat thy Portion be, “Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me, “Where skulks the villain?”---- --‘On the Ocean wide, ‘My _William_ seeks a portion for his Bride.’-- “Vain be his search! But till the traitor come, “The Higler’s Cottage be thy future home; “There with his antient Shrew and Care abide, “And hide thy Head, thy Shame thou canst not hide.” Day after day were past in grief and pain, Week after week,--nor came the Youth again; Her Boy was born--no Lads nor Lasses came To grace the Rite or give the Child a name; Nor grave conceited Nurse of office proud, Bore the young Christian roaring through the crowd; In a small chamber was my office done, Where blinks through paper’d panes the setting Sun; Where noisy Sparrows perch’d on penthouse near, Chirp tuneless joy and mock the frequent tear; Bats on their webby wings in darkness move, And feebly shriek their melancholy love. No Sailor came; the months in terror fled! Then news arriv’d; He fought, and he was DEAD! At the lone Cottage _Lucy_ lives, and still Walks, for her weekly pittance, to the Mill; A mean seraglio there her Father keeps, Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps: And sees the plenty, while compell’d to stay, Her Father’s pride, become his Harlot’s prey.