O my lovely Myrtle-tree？

    Love， free Love， cannot be bound

    To any tree that grows on ground.

    O！ how sick and weary I

    Underneath¹ my Myrtle lie；

    Like to dung upon the ground，

    Underneath my Myrtle bound.

    Oft my Myrtle sigh'd in vain

    To behold² my heavy chain：

    Oft my Father saw us sigh，

    And laugh'd at our simplicity³.

    So I smote⁴ him， and his gore⁵

    Stain'd the roots my Myrtle bore.

    But the time of youth is fled，

    And grey hairs are on my head.