7
Blest with thee, my dear Philander,
Could I chuse to live and die:
No swain with his aid, wit or art,
Ever should have power to storm my heart,
You are ali in all, we'll never part;
Each vein in me shall ever be,
Panting for the love of thee.
On the sands of South America,
Where the Sun never cast an eye;
Blest with thee, my dear Philander,
Could I chuse to live and die.
No swain with his aid, wit or art,
Ever should have power to storm my heart,
You are all in all, we'll never part;
Each vein, &c.
Let me never be slighted,
For the love that I do bear;
Lest my wrong they should be righted,
By your languishing despair.
For should you slight me with disdain,
Then tears of sorrow would be in vain,
For lost love can never be recall'd again
Each vein, &c.
Let us fly to Flory-mellow,
For to cherish up our drooping hearts;
