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.