His own sweet, injur'd, unoffending Maid.

_The renew'd Journey._

Once more he'd go; full resolute awhile,
But heard his native Bells on every stile;
The sound recall'd him with a pow'rful charm,
The Heath wide open'd, and the day was warm;
There, where a bed of tempting green he found,
Increasing anguish weigh'd him to the ground;
His well-grown limbs the scatter'd Daisies press'd,
While his clinch'd hand fell heavy on his breast.
'Why do I go in cruel sport to say,
"I love thee, Jane; appoint the happy day?"
'Why seek her sweet ingenuous reply,
'Then grasp her hand and proffer--poverty?
'Why, if I love her and adore her name,
'Why act like time and sickness on her frame?
'Why should my scanty pittance nip her prime,
'And chace away the Rose before its time?
'I'm young, 'tis true; the world beholds me free;
'Labour ne'er show'd a frightful face to me;

_Love of Prudence._

'Nature's first wants hard labour _should_ supply;
'But should it fail, 'twill be too late to fly.
'Some Summers hence, if nought our loves annoy,
'The image of my Jane may lisp her joy;
'Or, blooming boys with imitative swing