Guide me, kind Heav’n, to some lone cot
Where woman dwells! Her hand she’ll stretch
In pity to the stranger-wretch;
If virtuous want mine eye surveys,
Nor mine the power his head to raise,
I’ll pour the tale in woman’s ear,
She’ll aid, and, aiding, drop a tear.
And when my life-blood sickness drains,
And racks my nerves, and fires my brains,
What kinder juice, what livelier power,