Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/121

113 "God help thee Ruth!"—Such pains she had

That she in half a year was mad

And in a prison hous'd,

And there, exulting in her wrongs,

Among the music of her songs

She fearfully carouz'd.

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,

Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,

Nor pastimes of the May,

They all were with her in her cell,

And a wild brook with chearful knell

Did o'er the pebbles play.

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain

There came a respite to her pain,

She from her prison fled;

But of the Vagrant none took thought,

And where it liked her best she sought

Her shelter and her bread.