"Hope of my life, dear sovereign of my breast,
" Which, since I knew thee, knows not joy nor rest;
"Know, thou art all that my delighted eyes,
" My fondest thoughts, my proudest wishes prize;
"And is that bosom — (what on earth so fair!)
" To cradle some coarse peasant's sprawling heir,
"To be that pillow which some surly swain
" May treat with scorn and agonise with pain?
"Art thou, sweet maid, a ploughman's wants to share,
" To dread his insult, to support his care;
"To hear his follies, his contempt to prove,
" And (oh! the torment!) to endure his love;
"Till want and deep regret those charms destroy,
" That time would spare, if time were pass'd in joy?
"With him, in varied pains, from morn till night,
" Your hours shall pass; yourself a ruffian's right;
"Your softest bed shall be the knotted wool;
" Your purest drink the waters of the pool;
"Your sweetest food will but your life sustain,
" And your best pleasure be a rest from pain;
"While, through each year, as health and strength abate,
" You'll weep your woes and wonder at your fate;
"And cry, 'Behold,' as life's last cares come on,
"'My burthens growing when my strength is gone.'