For works with similar titles, see The Thorn.

The Thorn.

FROM the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested
A sprig her dear breast to adorn;
No, by heav'ns! I exclaim'd, may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.

Then I shew'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,
She blush'd like the dawning of morn;
Yes, I'll consent, she replied, if you promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
No, by heav'ns! &c.