The Thorn
From the white blossom’d sloe my dear Chloe requested
A sprig her fair breast to adorn,
From the white blossom’d sloe my dear Chloe requested,
A sprig her fair breast to adorn.
No! By heav’n! I exclaimed, may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!
When I show’d her a ring, and implor’d her to marry,
She blushed like the dawning of morn,
When I show’d her a ring, and implor’d her to marry,
She blushed like the dawning of morn.
Yes! I’ll consent, she replied, if you promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.