Prythee what mad contentments canst thou find,
Rosy-cheeked Betsey, in this blust’rous wind
Loved of thy Babyhood? Without the door
His leaves as running footmen go before
Thy lagging feet who with compliant grace
Smilest, his kisses mantling on thy face.
Go back and bid him use while yet he may
His favour brief and pre-determined day;
Bear with his wooing, nor forbid him now
Lift the light hair from thine untroubled brow,
Whom thou shalt dub a churl, when thou art grown
A woman, but for ruffling of thy gown.