She talk’d, and I bless’d her dear tongue;
When she smil’d, ’twas a pleasure too great;
I listen’d and cry’d when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet!
How foolish was I to believe
She could doat on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town:
To think that a beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant would prove,