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;