A lover's complaint in three double-quatrain stanzas, not signed. The poet, having parted from his favourite lass, has a frightening thought: "But perhaps I mistaken may be, | And perhaps she no pity will give, | But, indiff'rent, ne'er wishes to see | Or to hear if I die or I live." Though in the pastoral measure, the poem is without pastoral imagery.
How swiftly the moments did pass,
And the minutes they all seem'd to fly,
Whilst I sat by my favourite Lass;
But she's gone, and with grief I could die.
Alas! my poor heart it will break,
For no comfort or peace can I find;
I only can live for her sake,
And she ne'er shall be out of my mind.
Oh! let her not ever forget
How with transport I view'd her all day,
How pleas'd by her side I did sit,
And the thousand fond things I did say.
I know her kind heart won't disdain
To pity a grief she can't heal;
Could she give relief to my pain,
Then no longer that pain should I feel.
But perhaps I mistaken may be,
And perhaps she no pity will give,
But, indiff'rent, ne'er wishes to see
Or to hear if I die or I live.
'Tis wrong to expect or desire
My fond love she should ever return;
For the Fates do against me conspire,
Yet with passion I ever shall burn.