No fields that wave with golden grain,
No meadows green, or gardens fair,
A damsel's venal heart to gain.
Then all in vain my sighs must prove,
For I, alas! have naught but love.
How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since women's hearts are bought and
sold,
They ask no vows of sacred truth,
Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold.