It is there said, how truly I know not, to be "a translation from the ancient British language."
Away; let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.
What tho' no grants of royal donors5
With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honors,
And to be noble we'll be good.
Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke:10
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.
What though from fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find within our pittance plenty,15
And be content without excess.
Still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.20
Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.