His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade

Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid?

Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?

While I forlorn do wander reckless where,

And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

[IV.]

Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined

Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high

Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,

Nor of the busier scenes we left behind