The brain confused with muddy ale, to move In haste and stammering he perform'd his part, And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart; (So will each lover inly curse his fate, Too soon made happy and made wise too late:) I saw his features take a savage gloom, And deeply threaten for the days to come. Low spake the lass, and lisp'd and minced the while, Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile; With soften'd speech and humbled tone she strove To stir the embers of departed love: While he, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before, Felt the poor purse, and sought the public door, She sadly following, in submission went, And saw the final shilling foully spent; Then to her father's hut the pair withdrew, And bade to love and comfort long adieu! Ah! fly temptation, youth, refrain! refrain! I preach for ever; but I preach in vain! Two summers since, I saw at Lammas Fair The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, In haste to see, and happy to be seen: Her air, her manners, all who saw admired; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd; A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd; The lads around admired so fair a sight, And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. Admirers soon of every age she gain'd, Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd; Envy itself could no contempt display, They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace; But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour, With secret joy she felt that beauty's power, When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. At length the youth ordain'd to move her breast, Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd; With looks less timid made his passion known, And pleased by manners most unlike her own; Loud though in love, and confident though young; Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue; By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade, He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he made. Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford, Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board; With her should years of growing love be spent, And growing wealth;--she sigh'd and look'd consent. Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the green: (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen - Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid; Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile, Toy'd by each bank, and trifled at each stile; Where, as he painted every blissful view, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears.- Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late, The lover loiter'd at the master's gate; There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,