Should fate deprive me of my darling swain,
Some braver youth perhaps may grace the plain,
And make me happy by the nuptial band,
When cheerfully he gives his heart and hand.
Or if despis’d and unadmir’d I rest,
I’ll call my own sad destiny the best.
I’ll bliss the fate I oft have sought to shun,
And scorn the fool who would to wedlock run.
See Nature now in contrast with thy grief;
The warbling songsters seem to chant relief;