Go, idle Boy! I quit thy pow'r;
Thy couch of many a thorn and flow'r;
Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,
Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;
The feign'd surprize, the roguish leer,
The tender smile, the thrilling tear,
Have now no pangs, no joys for me,
So fare thee well, for I am free!
Then flutter hence on wanton wing,
Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,
Or take thy bev'rage from the rose,
Or on  breast repose:
I wish thee well for pleasures past,
Yet bless the hour, I'm free at last.