When first I beheld that fair Face,
'Twere better by far I had dy'd:
She talk'd, and I blest the dear Tongue,
When she smil'd 'twas a Pleasure too great;
I listned, and cry'd when she Sung,
Was Nightingale ever so sweet.
How foolish was I to believe,
She cou'd doat on so lowly a Clown;
Or that a fond Heart wou'd not grieve,
To forsake the fine Folk of the Town: