Ye tender maids! in whose pathetic souls
Compassion’s sacred stream impetuous rolls,
Whose warm affections exquisitely feel
The secret wound you tremble to reveal;
Ah! may no wanderer of the stormy main
Pour through your breasts the soft delicious bane;
May never fatal tenderness approve
The fond effusions of their ardent love:
Oh! warned, avoid the path that leads to woe,
Where thorns, and baneful weeds, alternate grow: