In the Blooming Time o’th’ year, In the Royal Month of _May_: Au the Heaves were glad and clear, Au the Earth was Fresh and Gay. A noble Youth but all Forlorn, Lig’d Sighing by a Spring: ‘Twere better I’s was nere Born, Ere wisht to be a King. II. Then from his Starry Eyne, Muckle Showers of Christal Fell: To bedew the Roses Fine, That on his Cheeks did dwell. And ever ‘twixt his Sighs he’d cry, How Bonny a Lad I’d been, Had I, weys me, nere Aim’d high, Or wisht to be a King. III. With Dying Clowdy Looks, Au the Fields and Groves he kens: Au the Gleeding Murmuring Brooks, (Noo his Unambitious Friends) Tol which he eance with Mickle Cheer His Bleating Flocks woud bring: And crys, woud God I’d dy’d here, Ere wisht to be a King. IV. How oft in Yonder Mead, Cover’d ore with Painted Flowers: Au the Dancing Youth I’ve led, Where we past our Blether Hours. In Yonder Shade, in Yonder Grove, How Blest the _Nymphs_ have been: Ere I for Pow’r Debaucht Love, Or wisht to be a King. V. Not add the _Arcadian Swains_, In their Pride and Glory Clad: Not au the Spacious Plains, Ere cou’d Boast a Bleether Lad. When ere I Pip’d, or Danc’d, or Ran, Or leapt, or whirl’d the Sling: The Flowry Wreaths I still won, And wisht to be a King. VI. But Curst be yon Tall Oak, And Old _Thirsis_ be accurst: There I first my peace forsook, There I learnt Ambition first. Such Glorious Songs of _Hero’s_ Crown’d, The Restless Swain woud Sing: My Soul unknown desires found, And Languisht to be King. VII. Ye Garlands, wither now, Fickle Glories, vanish all: Ye Wreaths that deckt my Brow, To the ground neglected fall. No more my sweet Repose molest, Nor to my Fancies bring The Golden Dreams of being Blest With Titles of a King. VIII. Ye Noble Youths, beware, Shun Ambitious powerful Tales: Distructive, False, and Fair, Like the Oceans Flattering Gales. See how my Youth and Glories lye, Like Blasted Flowers i’th’ Spring: My Fame, Renown, and all dye, For wishing to be King. _In Imitation of_ Horace. I. What mean those Amorous Curles of Jet? For what Heart-Ravisht Maid Dost thou thy Hair in order set, Thy Wanton Tresses Braid? And thy vast Store of Beauties open lay, That the deluded Fancy leads astray. II.