To the Tune of, The Broom of Cowdenknows.
TEach me, Chloe, how to prove
My boasted flame sincere:
‘Tis hard to tell how dear I love,
And hard to hide my care.
Sleep in vain displays her charms,
To bribe my soul to rest,
Vainly spreads her silken arms,
And courts me to her breast.
Where can Strephon find repose,
If Chloe is not there?
For ah! no peace his bosom knows,
When absent from the fair.
What tho’ Phoebus from on high
Withholds his chearful ray,
Thine eyes can well his light supply,
And give me more than day.
– New Words by Different Hands.