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As the ſwain was then complaining,
His darling was concealing,
⟨into⟩ a ſhade bewailing,
Near to a myrtle grove,
Where Cupid’s bow and quiver,
⟨it⟩ made her heart to ſhiver,
And like a wounded lover,
Theſe words to him ſhe ſaid,
How can I thus be cruel,
To you my dearſt jewel!
⟨I⟩ love you above all meaſure,
Since that my heart you’ve won;
There’s gold and ſilver bright,
For you my heart’s delight,
And before to morrow’s night,
I’ll embrace my Farmer’s Son.
The ROVER RECLAIM'D.
I Rambled about a twelvemonth I vow,
in ſearch of a damlel for life,
For roving perplex'd me I could not tell how,
ſo I ventur'd at laſt on a wife.
The girls of the town each rake muſt well know,
imbitters the pleaſures of life,
For evils on evils will conſantly flow,
and makes us all wiſh for a wife.
A miſtreſs it's true that's pleaſing and gay,
may ſweeten the troubles of life;
For evils on evils will conſtantly flow,
but what iſ all this to a wife?
