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7
HAP ME WITH THY PETTICOAT.
O BELL, thy looks have kill‘d my heart,
I paſs the day in pain
When night returns I feel the ſmart,
and wiſh for them in vain,
I'm ſtarving in cold, while thou art warm:
have pity and incline,
And grant me for a hap that charming
petticoat of thine.
My raviſh'd fancy in amaze,
ſtill wanders o‘er thy charms,
Deluſive dreams ten thouſand ways,
preſent thee to my arms
By waking think what I endure,
while cruel you decline,
Thoſe pleaſures, who 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;
