"How simple is the lad! and reft of skill, Who thinks with love to fix a woman's will: Who ev'ry Sunday morn, to please her sight, Knots up his neck-cloth gay, and hosen white: Who for her pleasure keeps his pockets bare, And half his wages spends on pedlar's ware; When every niggard clown, or dotard old, Who hides in secret nooks his oft told gold, Whose field or orchard tempts with all her pride, At little cost may win her for his bride; Whilst all the meed her silly lover gains Is but the neighbours' jeering for his pains. On Sunday last when Susan's bands were read, And I astonish'd sat with hanging head, Cold grew my shrinking limbs, and loose my knee, Whilst every neighbour's eye was fix'd on me. Ah, Sue! when last we work'd at Hodge's hay, And still at me you jeer'd in wanton play; When last at fair, well pleas'd by show-man's stand, You took the new-bought fairing from my hand; When at old Hobb's you sung that song so gay, Sweet William still the burthen of the lay, I little thought, alas! the lots were cast, That thou shou'd'st be another's bride at last: And had, when last we trip'd it on the green And laugh'd at stiff-back'd Rob, small thought I ween, Ere yet another scanty month was flown, To see thee wedded to the hateful clown. Ay, lucky swain, more gold thy pockets line; But did these shapely limbs resemble thine, I'd stay at home, and tend the household geer, Nor on the green with other lads appear. Ay, lucky swain, no store thy cottage lacks, And round thy barn thick stands the shelter'd stacks; But did such features hard my visage grace, I'd never budge the bonnet from my face. Yet let it be: it shall not break my ease: He best deserves who doth the maiden please. Such silly cause no more shall give me pain, Nor ever maiden cross my rest again. Such grizzly suitors with their taste agree, And the black fiend may take them all for me!"