My eye delighted—but I mourn,
To think of winter’s quick return;
With withering winds and frost so keen,
I sighing leave the Pandon Dean.
O spare for once a female pen,
And lash licentious wicked men;
Your conscious cheek need never glow,
If you your talents thus bestow:
Scarce fifteen summers have I seen,
Yet dare to sing of Pandon Dean.