Flies to the woods; a hermit saint!
She loathes her patches, pins and paint,
Dear diamonds from her neck are torn;
But humour, that eternal thorn,
Sticks in her heart: she’s hurried still,
’Twixt her wild passions and her will:
Haunted and hagged where’er she roves,
By purling streams, and silent groves,
Or with her furies, or her loves.
Then our native land we hate,