Alas I how chang’d my blissful lot, No grief my bosom could pervade When in my father’s rural cot, I dwelt, a smiling village maid.
My Sire possess’d no golden hoard, Content our humble labours crown’d; Yet ever to our homely board The stranger cheerful welcome found. The silver QUEEN of NIGHT’s pale beam, The beauteous gems of HEAVEN so bright, The hill, the grove, the limpid stream, Afforded scenes of fresh delight. When weary, on my bed reclin’d, Unsought sleep pour’d its cordial balm: For VIRTUE o’er my youthful mind Had breath’d a soft unruffled calm. The rustic youth around me bow’d, And prais’d in artless strains my charms; A Villain’s flattery made me proud, And won me to his guileful arms. But fated soon, his love most rare Was chang’d to loathing and disdain; Then nought was mine but fell despair, Remorse, sharp penury, and pain.
For splendid trifles Fame was sold, (Grown cailous to each sense of shame,)
To casual lovers, for their gold, I barter’d even VIRTUE’s name.
Contaminate with dire disease, My charms no more attractive prove;
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