———
Well, go to France, poor little child! yes, go.
My love for thee is worthless: I am poor.
People enjoy elsewhere; here we endure:
Go child, ’tis for your good; ’tis better so.
When this poor arm was strong to labor once,
Refreshed, rewarded when my darling smiled,
Who then had dared advise me to renounce
The dear caresses of my child?
But I am widowed; Strength departs with Joy.