Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/71

19 To wicked deeds I was inclined,

And wicked fancies cross'd my mind,

And every man I chanc'd to see,

I thought he knew some ill of me.

No peace, no comfort could I find,

No ease, within doors or without,

And crazily, and wearily,

I went my work about.

Oft-times I thought to run away;

For me it was a woeful day.

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,

As dear as my own children be;

For daily with my growing store

I loved my children more and more.

Alas! it was an evil time;

God cursed me in my sore distress,

I prayed, yet every day I thought

I loved my children less;

And every week, and every day,

My flock, it seemed to melt away.