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AWAY; let nought to Love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your Care;
Let nought delay the heav’nly Blessing,
Nor squeamish Pride, nor gloomy Fear.
What tho’ no Grants of Royal Donors
With pompous Titles grace our Blood?
We’ll shine in more substantial Honours,
And, to be Noble, we’ll be good.
Through Youth and Age, in Love excelling,
We’ll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling Peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
And, when with envy Time transported
Shall think to rob us of our Joys;
You’ll, in your Girls, again be courted,
And I’ll go wooing in my Boys.
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