How closely the woodbine has twined round my bow'r! 
How sweet its perfume, and how lovely its flower; 
The beauty and fragrance thus wasted on air, 
Might mingle their sweets with the charms of my fair: 
The blossoms expand in the beam of her eye,
Then sink on her bosom, enraptur'd, and die.

How often I think when entwining its boughs, 
Would my soul's darling idol here witness my vows; 
Not the pilgrims that visit St Wenefrede's shrine, 
Could shew a devotion so ardent as mine; 
To their virgin saint while they offer a part, 
My all I'd resign to the queen of my heart.

To the banks of the Wye would she wander to view 
My woodbine, when weeping with evening's soft dew; 
It's balm-breathing beauties so fresh would appear, 
My arbour so gay, and my fountain so clear: 
That Lucy herself with a smile might approve 
The work of wild fancy thus guided by love.