Till the purple Morn arise, And balmy Sleep forsake thine Eyes; Till the gladsome Beams of Day Remove the Shades of Night away; Then when soft Sleep shall from thy Eyes depart, Rise like the bounding Roe, or lusty Hart, Glad to behold the Light again From Bether's Mountains darting o'er the Plain.

How canst thou then consider the forsaking of one, seeking for help, as virtuous?

Let keen despair her icy progress make, And slacken'd nerves their talk forsake; Years damp the vital fire.