( 8 )
Fly all ye loves and graces,
to Jove with this petition,
To break my chain, & fend my swain
and heal my sad condition.
But, ah ! if Jove refuse,
I’ll set my cell on fire;
To asswage my breast, I’ll burn my nest
and Phoenix-like expire.
PETTICOAT WOOING.
DEar Colin prevent my warm blushes
for how can I speak without pain,
My eyes have oft told you my wishes,
why can’t you the meaning explain?
My passion would lose in expressing,
and you too might cruelly blame,
Then pray don't expect a confession,
of what is too tender to name.
Since yours is the province of speaking
how can you expect it from me?
Our wishes should be in our keeping,
till you tell us what they should be.
Then quickly why don’t you discover?
did your heart feel such torture as (mine,
I need not tell over and over,
what I in my bosom confine.
FINIS.
