The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.

If I am right, Thy grace impart Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O, teach my heart To find that better way!

I am satisfied to trifle away my time, rather than let it stick by me.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?