Behind an unfrequented glade, Where yew and myrtle mix their shade, A widow Turtle pensive sat, And wept her murder'd lover's fate. The Sparrow chanced that way to walk,...
What charms you have, from what high race you sprung, Have been the pleasing subjects of my song: Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ Of Ca'ndish' beauty, join'd to Cecil's wit....
When future ages shall with wonder view These glorious lines which Harley's daughter drew, They shall confess that Britain could not raise A fairer column to the father's praise.