Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found;
From the legacy-hunters, that near us abound,
Diana, thy servant deliver!
From the scorn of the young, and the flaunts of the gay,
From all the trite ridicule rattled away
By the pert ones, who know nothing wiser to say,—
Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her!
From repining at fancied neglected desert;
Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert;
From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt;