Sweet girl, may no terror thy bosom annoy
O’er thee may no clouds of adversity burst
The roses which bloom on thy cheeks to destroy
And give them so mournful a hue as my first.
Still foremost be thou in simplicity’s train,
Still virtuous, gentle, and modest be thou
Nor join with the haughty, the giddy, the vain
At the strike of my second who fidelity bow
For ah! should their folly thy fancy allure
The example might make thee from rectitude swerve,
Might sully that bosom which now is so pure
And my third be a title e’en thou may’st deserve.
Then care and repentance shall wither thy bloom
Thy charms and they graces will speedily fly
Thy cheeks the sad hue of my first will assume
And art must the roses of nature supply.