Of singing Delia, Nature’s joy;
Thou bad’st me change the pastoral scene
Forget my Crook; with haughty mien
To raise the iron Spear of War,
Victim of Grief and deep Despair:
Say, must I all my joys forego
And still maintain this outward show?
Say, shall this breast that’s pained to feel
Be ever clad in horrid steel?
Nor swell with other joys than those