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But waking, think what I endure,
while cruel you decline
Those pleasures, which can only cure
this panting breast of mine.
I faint I fail, and wildly rove,
because you still deny
The just reward that's due to love,
and let true passion die.
Oh! turn and let compassion seize
that lovely breast of thine;
Thy petticoat would give me ease,
if thou and it were mine.
Sure Heaven has fitt d for delight
that beauteous form of thine,
And thou'rt too good its law to slight,
by hind'ring the design:
May all the powers of love agree
at length to make thee mine.
Or loose my chains and set me free
from ev'ry charm of thine.
FINIS.
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Falkirk—T. Johnston, Printer.
