Fame Can Never Make Us

No, Make Me Mistress To The Man I Love; If There Be Yet Another Name More Free More Fond Than Mistress, Make Me That To Thee!

They Dream In Courtship, But In Wedlock Wake.

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.

Judges And Senates Have Been Bought For Gold; Esteem And Love Were Never To Be Sold.

Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar Spot, To Draw Nutrition, Propagate And Rot.