22
THIRD PASTORAL.
There plac'd aloft, I'll rave and rail by fits,
Though all the parish say I've lost my wits; 110
And thence, if courage holds, my self I'll throw,
And quench my passion in the lake below.
Ye lasses, cease your burthen, cease to moan,
And, by my case forewarn'd, go mind your own.
The sun was set; the night came on a-pace, 115
And falling dews bewet around the place,
The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings,
And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings;
The prudent maiden deems it now too late,
And 'til to morrow comes, defers her fate. 120
Though all the parish say I've lost my wits; 110
And thence, if courage holds, my self I'll throw,
And quench my passion in the lake below.
Ye lasses, cease your burthen, cease to moan,
And, by my case forewarn'd, go mind your own.
The sun was set; the night came on a-pace, 115
And falling dews bewet around the place,
The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings,
And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings;
The prudent maiden deems it now too late,
And 'til to morrow comes, defers her fate. 120
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THURSDAY
