They wish’d her well, whom yet they wish’d away. 
Correct in thought, she judged a servant’s place
Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace;
But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom’s hour,
With secret joy she felt that beauty’s power,
When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,
That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. 
   At length the youth ordain’d to move her breast,
Before the swains with bolder spirit press’d;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleased by manners most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though young;
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,
He served the ’Squire, and brush’d the coat he made. 
Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford,
Her slave alone, again he’d mount the board;
With her should years of growing love be spent,
And growing wealth;—­she sigh’d and look’d consent. 
   Now, through the lane, up hill, and ’cross the green: 
(Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen —
Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,)
Led by the lover, walk’d the silent maid;
Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile,
Toy’d by each bank, and trifled at each stile;
Where, as he painted every blissful view,
And highly colour’d what he strongly drew,
The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,
Dimm’d the false prospect with prophetic tears.-
Thus pass’d th’ allotted hours, till lingering late,
The lover loiter’d at the master’s gate;
There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,
Till chidden—­soothed—­entreated—­forced away;
He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,
And oft retire, and oft return again;
When, if his teasing vex’d her gentle mind,
The grief assumed compell’d her to be kind! 
For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,
That she resented first, and then forgave;
And to his grief and penance yielded more
Than his presumption had required before. 
   Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain! 
Each yielding maid and each presuming swain! 
   Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black,
And torn green gown loose hanging at her back,
One who an infant in her arms sustains,
And seems in patience striving with her pains;
Pinch’d are her looks, as one who pines for bread,
Whose cares are growing—­and whose hopes are fled;
Pale her parch’d lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain
Frets the meek soul, and then she’s calm again; —
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,
And every step with cautious terror makes;
For not alone that infant in her arms,
But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. 
With water burthen’d, then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound,