What heart by heav’n with gen’rous softness blest,
But in thy lines its native language reads?
Where hapless love, in tender, plainness drest,
Gracefully mourns and elegantly bleeds.
In vain, alas, thy fancy fondly gay
Trac’d the fair scenes of dear domestic life;
The sportive loves forsook their wanton play,
To paint for thee the mistress, friend and wife.
Oh luckless lover! form’d for better days,
For golden years, and ages long ago: