HARD is the heart that never knew to love,
Ne felt the pleasing anguish of desire.
Ye British maids, more fair than Venus' dove,
For you alone I tune my humble lyre;
Adopt me, nymphs, receive me in your quire,
Make me your bard; for that is all my care:
Then shall I envy not that aged sire,
Who doth for court his annual song prepare:
I lever myrtle wreath than Kesar's laurel wear.