I never saw so sweet a face / As that I stood before: / My heart has left its dwelling place / And can return no more.

First-love will with the heart remain / When its hopes are all gone by; / As frail rose-blossoms still retain / Their fragrance when they die:

I am—yet what I am, none cares or knows; / My friends forsake me like a memory lost: / I am the self-consumer of my woes.

The frog croaks loud, and maidens dare not pass but fear the noisome toad and shun the grass.

Here I lie, a clock-o'-clay, waiting for the time o' day.

The ice-bound floods that still with rigour freeze / The snow clothed valley and the naked tree / These sympathising scenes my heart can please / Distress is theirs— and they resemble me.

One keeps the heart-bred villain full in sight, / The other cants and acts the hypocrite, / Smoothing the deed where law sharks set their gin / Like a coy dog to draw misfortune in.

An old smoaked blanket arches oer his head, / A whisp of straw or stubble makes his bed. / He knows a lawless law that claims no kin / But meet and plunder on and feel no sin —

He talks to none but wends his silent way, / And finds a hovel at the close of day, / Or under any hedge his house is made. / He has no calling and he owns no trade.

Envy will gnaw its heart away to see thy genius gather root.