You've not to wait from year to year distress'd,
Before your conscience can be laid at rest;
There smiles your bride, there sprawls your new-born son,
—A ring, a licence, and the thing is done."
"My loving James,"—the lass began her plea,
"I'll make thy reason take a part with me.
Had I been froward, skittish, or unkind,
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Or to thy person or thy passion blind;
Had I refused, when 'twas thy part to pray,