Forbid it, Love! we have our couples here

Who hail the day in each revolving year:

These are with us, as in the world around;

They are not frequent, but they may be found.

Our farmers too, what though they fail to prove,

In Hymen’s bonds, the tenderest slaves of love,

(Nor, like those pairs whom sentiment unites,

Feel they the fervour of the mind’s delights;)

Yet coarsely kind and comfortably gay,

They heap the board and hail the happy day: