“Ha!” quoth the Miller, moved at speech so rash,
“Art thou like me? then where thy notes and cash? 
Away to Wapping, and a wife command,
With all thy wealth, a guinea in thine hand;
There with thy messmates quaff the muddy cheer,
And leave my Lucy for thy betters here.” 
“Revenge! revenge!” the angry lover cried,
Then sought the nymph, and “Be thou now my bride.” 
Bride had she been, but they no priest could move
To bind in law the couple bound by love. 
What sought these lovers then by day by night? 
But stolen moments of disturb’d delight;
Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly prized,
Transports that pain’d, and joys that agonised;
Till the fond damsel, pleased with lad so trim,
Awed by her parent, and enticed by him,
Her lovely form from savage power to save,
Gave—­not her hand—­but all she could she gave. 
Then came the day of shame, the grievous night,
The varying look, the wandering appetite;
The joy assumed, while sorrow dimm’d the eyes,
The forced sad smiles that follow’d sudden sighs;
And every art, long used, but used in vain,
To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain. 
Too eager caution shows some danger’s near,
The bully’s bluster proves the coward’s fear;
His sober step the drunkard vainly tries,
And nymphs expose the failings they disguise. 
First, whispering gossips were in parties seen,
Then louder Scandal walk’d the village—­green;
Next babbling Folly told the growing ill,
And busy Malice dropp’d it at the mill. 
“Go! to thy curse and mine,” the Father said,
“Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed;
Want and a wailing brat thy portion be,
Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me; —
Where skulks the villain?” —
“On the ocean wide
My William seeks a portion for his bride.” —
“Vain be his search; but, till the traitor come,
The higgler’s cottage be thy future home;
There with his ancient shrew and care abide,
And hide thy head,—­thy shame thou canst not hide.” 
Day after day was pass’d in pains and grief;
Week follow’d week,—­and still was no relief: 
Her boy was born—­no lads nor lasses came
To grace the rite or give the child a name;
Nor grave conceited nurse, of office proud,
Bore the young Christian roaring through the crowd: 
In a small chamber was my office done,
Where blinks through paper’d panes the setting sun;
Where noisy sparrows, perch’d on penthouse near,
Chirp tuneless joy, and mock the frequent tear;
Bats on their webby wings in darkness move,
And feebly shriek their melancholy love. 
No Sailor came; the months in terror fled! 
Then news arrived—­He fought, and he was dead! 
At the lone cottage Lucy lives, and still
Walks for her weekly pittance to the mill;
A mean seraglio there her father keeps,
Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps;
And sees the plenty, while compell’d to stay,