YE GENTLE GALES.

Ye gentle Gales, that softly move, Go whisper to the Fair I love; Tell her I languish and adore, And pity in return implore.

But if she's cold to my request, Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest— My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim, And speak in strongest notes my flame.

Still, if she rests in mute disdain, And thinks I feel a common pain— Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly, And tell the haughty Fair I die.