To think that a Beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant wou'd prove;
Or go clad like our Maidens in Gray,
Or live in a Cottage on Love.
What tho' I have skill to complain,
Tho' the Muses my Temples have crown'd;
What tho' when they hear my soft Strains,
The Virgins sit weeping around:
Ah Collin thy Hopes are in vain,
Thy Pipe and thy Lawrel resign;