Why should I be bound to thee，

    O my lovely Myrtle-tree？

    Love， free Love， cannot be bound

    To any tree that grows on ground.

    O！ how sick and weary I

    Underneath my Myrtle lie；

    Like to dung upon the ground，

    Underneath my Myrtle bound.

    Oft my Myrtle sigh'd in vain

    To behold my heavy chain：

    Oft my Father saw us sigh，

    And laugh'd at our simplicity.

    So I smote him， and his gore

    Stain'd the roots my Myrtle bore.

    But the time of youth is fled，

    And grey hairs are on my head.