Pray, if I meet my cousin’s little boy,
And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?
But I remember Delia—yet, to give 240
A thought to this is folly, as I live—
But I remember Delia made her prayer
That I would try and give the Boy an air;
Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—
A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;
And since the lad is grown to man’s estate,
We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.”