THE SHRUBS OF PARNASSUS, &c, SONG

That little rogue Cupid, I vow, Is playing such tricks with my heart, I flutter—I cannot tell how, Yet feel the sharp pangs of his dart! What cruel ungenerous swain Could send this fond urchin to me? Whose heart was a stranger to pain, And e'er rov'd as free as a bee.

But now my poor senses are gone; My spirits are fled from me quite; And I'm a poor maiden forlorn, No rest can I take day or night. How happy, ah! once sure was I! So chearful I 'rose in the morn, But now am addicted to sigh For him that I treated with scorn.

Young CORYDON must be the swain— None like him appears to my view; He caught my fond heart on the plain— Ah! shepherd, I'm wretched for you! O! come, then, dear youth, and be kind; No longer disdainful I'll be, But harbour content in my mind, And think upon no one but thee.