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She brought me a fun-flow'r---This, fair one's, your due;
For it once was a maiden, and love-sick like you :
Oh! give it me quick, to my shepherd I'll run,
As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the sun.
The Lass with the golden Locks.
more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,
Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me before;
My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've fold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold :
l'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my flocks,
And will sing to my lass with the golden locks.
Tho'o'er her white forehead the gilt tresses flow,
Like the rays of the sun on a hillock of snow;
Such painters of old drew the Queen of the Fair,
'Tis the taste of the antients, 'tis classical hair :
And tho' witlings may scoff, and tho' raillery mocks,
Yet I'll fing to my lass with the golden locks.
To live and to love, to converse and be free,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kisses and rhime,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time ;
A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.
Than the swan in the brook she's more dear to my sight,
Her mien is more stately, her breast is more white,
Her sweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,
Which are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the park in the mall, at the play in the box,
My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.
V. Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow, Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my woe; She shall ease my fond heart, and shall footh my While thousands of rivals are sighing in vain ; Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like the fox, While I have the lass with the golden locks.
Y Florio, wildest of his sex,
(Who sure the veriest faint wou'd
From beauty roves to beauty ;
Yet, tho' abroad the wanton roam,
Whene'er he deigns to stay at home,
He always minds his duty.
Something to every charming she,
In thoughtless prodigality,
He's granting still and granting,
To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,
And every madam, every miss ;
Yet I find nothing wanting.
If haply I his will displease,
Tempestuous as th' autumnal feas
He foams and rages ever ;
But when he ceases from his ire,
I cry, such spirit, and such fire,
Is surely wond'rous clever. .
I ne'er want reason to complain;
But sweet is pleasure after pain,
And every joy grows greater.
Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell,
I should not like him half so well,
If I cou'd make him better.
ROM morn to night, from day to day,
At all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes, you'll ever cease.
Fobear, my Celia, oh! forbear,
If your own health, or ours you prize;
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your toïgue's more killing than your eyes.
Your tongue's a traytor to your face,
Your fame's by your own noise obscur’d,
All are distracted while they gaze ;
But if they listen, they are cur’d.
Your silence wou'd acquire more praise,
Than all you say, or all I write
One look ten thousand charms displays ;
Then hush --- and be an angel quite.
ROM all her fair loquacious kind,
So different is my Rosalind,
That not one accent can I gain
To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain.
Ye lovers, who can construe fighs,
And are the interpreters of eyes,
To language all her looks translate,
And in her gestures read my fate.