And to himself low mutt'ring spoke the youth.

"How simple is the lad! and reft of skill,
Who thinks with love to fix a woman's will:
Who ev'ry Sunday morn, to please her sight,
Knots up his neck-cloth gay, and hosen white:
Who for her pleasure keeps his pockets bare,
And half his wages spends on pedlar's ware;
When every niggard clown, or dotard old,
Who hides in secret nooks his oft told gold,
Whose field or orchard tempts with all her pride,
At little cost may win her for his bride;
Whilst all the meed her silly lover gains
Is but the neighbours' jeering for his pains.
On Sunday last when Susan's bands were read,
And I astonish'd sat with hanging head,
Cold grew my shrinking limbs, and loose my knee,
Whilst every neighbour's eye was fix'd on me.
Ah, Sue! when last we work'd at Hodge's hay,
And still at me you jeer'd in wanton play;
When last at fair, well pleas'd by show-man's stand,
You took the new-bought fairing from my hand;
When at old Hobb's you sung that song so gay,
Sweet William still the burthen of the lay,
I little thought, alas! the lots were cast,
That thou shou'd'st be another's bride at last:
And had, when last we trip'd it on the green
And laugh'd at stiff-back'd Rob, small thought I ween,
Ere yet another scanty month was flown,
To see thee wedded to the hateful clown.