I will not sing of every spell
That decks thy form—thou'rt not for me;
For I've a voice that doth excel
A school-boy blowing in a key:
And lovely lips have o'er and o'er
Declared my singing quite a bore.
But let me breathe this fervent prayer,
That when to him thou hold'st most dear
Thou yield'st thine hand, oh! make him swear
To shun the wiles of bottled beer;