Thy lips, which seem the scarlet's hue to steal,
Are sweeter than the candy'd lemon peel.
Marget.
Pray take these chickens for me to the cart;
Dear little creatures, how it grieves my heart
To see them ty'd, that never knew a crime,
And formed so fine a flock at feeding time!
The pretty poem ends with fervid protestations of devotion from Isaac:—
For thee the press with apple-juice shall foam!
For thee the bees shall quit their honey-comb!