Where Age and Labour love to rest,

Where healthy viands press the board.

Now lay me down, kind nymph, at ease

Beneath yon verdant mountain’s brow,

Where wanton zephyrs fan the trees,

Where violets spring, and waters flow.

What joys—delusive charmer, hold!

Despair has seiz’d my thick’ning blood:

Her lips how pale! Her cheek how cold!

Matilda faints for want of food!’