For thus he sung:—while Cupid smile’d;—
Please’d that the Gard’ner own’d his dart,
Which prune’d his passions, running wild,
And grafted true-love on his heart.
Maid of the Moor! his love return!
True love ne’er tints the cheek with shame:
When Gard’ners’ hearts, like hot-beds, burn,
A Cook may surely feed the flame.
Ah! not averse from love was she;
Tho’ pure as Heaven’s snowy flake;