3
Oh! no, my Love, no.
WHILE I hang on your bosom, distracted to lose you,
High swells my sad heart, and fast my tears flow,
Yet think not of coldness they fall to accuse you,
Did I ever upbraid you—Oh! no, my Love, no.
I own it would please me at home could you tarry,
Nor e'er feel a wish from Maria to go?
But if it give pleasure to you, my dear Harry,
Shall I blame your departure?—Oh! no, my love, no.
Now do not, dear Hal, while abroad you are straying,
That heart which is mine on a rival bestow;
Nay, banish that frown, such displeasure betraying,
Do you think I suspect you?—Oh! no, my love, no.
I believe you too kind for one moment to grieve me,
Or plant in a heart which adores you such woe;
Yet would you dishonour my truth and deceive me,
Should I e'er cease to love you?—Oh! no my love, no,
The Thorn.
FROM the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested
A sprig her dear breast to adorn;
No, by heav'ns! I exclaim'd, may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
Then I shew'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,
She blush'd like the dawning of morn;
Yes, I'll consent, she replied, if you promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
No, by heav'ns! &c.
