Tibby Fowler/The thorn
THE THORN.
From the white blossom'd sloe dear Chloe requested,
A sprig her fair breast to adorn:
No, by heaven! I exclaim'd, may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
Then I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,
She blush'd like the dawning of morn;
Yes, I'll consent, she reply'd, if you'll promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
No, by heaven! &c.