BALLAD. (A novice in love, and a stranger…)

A novice in love, and a stranger to art, As pure as my wishes my unpractis'd heart; When I rose with the lark, and out-warbled the thrush, Free from falshood or guile, for I knew not to blush: Those past days I deplore.

When innocence guarded my unsullied fame, When to think, and to act, and commend were the same; When on my face, With artless grace, Danc'd frolick, sport, and pleasure—now no more.

Ere I listen'd and lov'd, ere man smil'd and betray'd, Ere by horror appall'd, and of conscience afraid; Lost to each fond delight that e'er woman adorn'd, By a hard judging world look'd at, pity'd, and scorn'd: Those past joys I deplore.

Those joys, ere by man's artful treach'ry forsook, Which, guiltless and pleas'd, with the world I partook; When on my face, With artless grace, Danc'd frolick, sport, and pleasure—now no more.