Irresistibly fine look’d this gallant of Ferques.
These walkings, these gazings, the terrible sighing,
With death, or at least earnest threat’nings of dying;
These sinkings of spirit, these meltings away,
With the watchings by night and the dreamings by day,
What could such a mixture combustible bring,
But a state of incendiarism, like Swing?
When hearts are the haystack, and Love holds the torch,
’Tis odds but the haystack will soon get a scorch.
And what else could arise from those meetings at eve,