Which, since I knew thee, knows not joy nor rest;
Know, thou art all that my delighted eyes,
My fondest thoughts, my proudest wishes prize;
And is that bosom - (what on earth so fair!)
To cradle some coarse peasant’s sprawling heir,
To be that pillow which some surly swain
May treat with scorn and agonise with pain?
Art thou, sweet maid, a ploughman’s wants to share,
To dread his insult, to support his care;
To hear his follies, his contempt to prove,