a wooer like me maunna hope toe speed,
the wounds i must hide that will soon be my dead.
the dayes to me, but delight brings me nane;
the nightes to me, but my rest it is gane;
i wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
and i sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
o had she but been of a lower degree,
i then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
o how past descriving had then been my bliss,
as now my distraction nae words can express.