AWAY; let nought to Love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your Care; Let nought delay the
heav’nly Blessing, Nor squeamish Pride, nor gloomy Fear.
What tho’ no Grants of Royal Donors With pompous Titles grace our Blood? We’ll shine in
more substantial Honours, And, to be Noble, we’ll be good.
Through Youth and Age, in Love excelling, We’ll hand in hand together tread; Sweet-smiling
Peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
And, when with envy Time transported Shall think to rob us of our Joys; You’ll, in your Girls,
again be courted, And I’ll go wooing in my Boys.