To pile upon the circling reel
An even thread and true;
But since for Rob she 'gan to pine,
She twists her flax in vain;
'Tis now too coarse,—and now too fine,—
And now—'tis snapt in twain!
Robin, a bachelor profest,
At love and lovers laughs,
And o'er the bowl with reckless jest,
His pretty spinster quaffs;