Fraught with each beauty nature yields,
Whilst from her eye affection beam’d.
It was so like what fairy books,
In painting heaven, are wont to tell,
That fondly I believed those looks,
And found too late—’twas all a sell!
’Twas all a sell!
She vow’d I was her all—her life—
And proved, methought, her words by sighs;
She long’d to hear me call her “wife,”