Thy pinks, thy stocks, thy Provence roses,
Are pretty, and I'm fond of posies;
But wages may not long be gotten
When folly's rife, and business rotten.
A man of straw thy master seems,
No grain of sense is in thy dreams,
And my Papa would not approve
Even if I would be thy love.
But, when times mend, sheep-farms succeed,
And all on English mutton feed,