Thou Sov'reign Pow'r, whose secret Will controlls
The inward Bent and Motion of our Souls!
Why hast Thou plac'd such infinite Degrees
Between the Cause and Cure of my Disease?
The mighty Object of that raging Fire,
In which unpity'd  must expire,
Had He been born some simple Shepherd's Heir,
The lowing Herd, or fleecy Sheep his Care;
At Morn with him I o'er the Hills had run,
Scornful of Winter's Frost, and Summer's Sun,
Still asking, where He made his Flock to rest at Noon.
For him at Night, the dear expected Guest,
I had with hasty Joy prepar'd the Feast;
And from the Cottage, o'er the distant Plain,
Sent forth my longing Eye to meet the Swain;
Wav'ring, impatient, toss'd by Hope and Fear;
Till He and Joy together should appear;
And the lov'd Dog declare his Master near.
On my declining Neck, and open Breast,
I should have lull'd the lovely Youth to Rest;
And from beneath his Head, at dawning Day,
With softest Care have stol'n my Arm away;
To rise, and from the Fold release the Sheep,
Fond of his Flock, indulgent to his Sleep.