Like Plato I would laugh at wealth
While she was in my arms;
And if I cannot gain her
From grief there's no appeal;
My joy, my pain, my life, my all
Are fixed with Mary Neele.

The stone of vain philosophers,
That wonder-working toy,
The golden fleece of Jason,
That Helen stole from Troy,
The beauty and the riches
That all these fames unseal,
Are nothing all, and less than that,
Compared to Mary Neele.

O if I cannot gain her
Right wretched must I be,
And caves and lonely mountains
Must be the life for me,
To pine in gloom and sorrow,
And hide the deaths I feel,
For light nor life I may not share
When lost to Mary Neele.




LOVE SCORNED BY PRIDE