Still to complain, and never hope redress—
Go then, dear youth! thy father’s rage atone,
And let this tortured bosom beat alone.
The hovering anger yet thou may’st appease!
Go then, dear youth! nor tempt the faithless seas.
Find out some happier maid, whose equal charms
With Fortune’s fairer joys, may bless thy arms:
Where, smiling o’er thee with indulgent ray,
Prosperity shall hail each new-born day:
Too well thou know’st good Albert’s niggard fate,