E'en now, perchance, ye sit in order round
The evening board, your father at the head,
And Polly in my place making his tea,
While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself.
And thou, O husband, dearest, might I lay
My, weary head as oft upon thy breast!—
But no (
she rises
), I dare not think—there is above
A Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought,