A Song to the Tune of Bony Broom

Since love first hurl'd his golden Dart, And taught his Shafts to flie, Or wounded Swains did feel his Smart, None felt it more than I.

The sightless Boy has thrill'd me through, His Arrows pierc'd my Breast, The fatal Aim he took too true, Which robs my Soul of Rest.

My boiling Blood in rage doth move, Through all my Veins doth run, Still thronging to the seat of Love, It's flame hath me undone.

The tedious Nights I wake with Care, No slumbers close my Eyes, Still thinking of my charming Fair, 'Till Day's bright Beams arise.

In her dear Breast my Soul doth live, Her breath's my vital Air; Her smiles alone can Comfort give, And sooth my killing care.

But O she Frowns when I implore, And smiles at all my grief, She scorns alass whom I adore, Nor yields the least Relief.

But God of love espouse my part, And give her equal Pain, O make her Sharer in my Smart, Nor let me love in Vain.

In her fair breast let pity Reign, And mercy keep its Throne, Can she destroy a dying Swain, Or see a Wretch undone.