In sparkling liquors ev’ry care was drown’d.
But ah! the fumes affect Lothario’s brain;
Once more he tries for pleasure on the plain.
The scene is chang’d, his pleasure now is gone,
Lost and forlorn he wanders all alone.
With weari’d steps, o’er barren heaths he past,
And in Bane’s moss, alas! he lands at last.
His trembling hand, which held the lifeless hare,
Now casts it from him as not worth his care.
Three times he drops, three times he lifts his plaid,