SONG CCLXIV. Sung at Vauxhall

Shall, I wasting in Despair, Die because a Woman's fair; Shall my Cheeks look pale with Care, 'Cause another's rosy are; Be she faiter then the Day: Or the flow'ry Meads in May, Yet if she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be.

Shall a Woman's Goodness move, Me to perish for her Love; Or her worthy Merits known, Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that Goodness blest, As may merit Name the best; Yet if she be not such to me, What care I how good she be.

Be she good, or kind, or fair, I will never more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die e'er she can grieve, If she slights me when I woo, I will scorn and let her go; So if she be not fit for me, What care I for whom she be.