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THE THORN.
From the white-blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested,
A sprig her fair breast to adorn:
No, by heaven! I exclaim’d, may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
Then I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,
She blush'd like the dawning of morn;
Yes, I‘ll consent, she reply‘d, if you‘ll promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
No, by Heaven, &c.
FINIS.
