How, Like A Moth, The Simple Maid

Praising All Alike, Is Praising None.

The Sun Was Set; The Night Came On Apace, And Falling Dews Bewet Around The Place; The Bat Takes Airy Rounds On Leathern Wings, And The Hoarse Owl His Woeful Dirges Sings.

My Lodging Is On The Cold Ground, And Hard, Very Hard, Is My Fare, But That Which Grieves Me More Is The Coldness Of My Dear.

Youth's The Season Made For Joys, Love Is Then Our Duty.

One Common Fate We Both Must Prove; You Die With Envy, I With Love.