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Song, p.65.

[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]

To the Tune of, Rothes’s Lament; or, Pinky-house


AS Silvia in a forest lay 

To vent her woe alone; 

Her swain Sylvander came that way, 

And heard her dying moan. 

Ah! is my love (she said) to you 

So worthless and so vain: 

Why is your wonted fondness now 

Converted to disdain? 


You vow’d the light should darkness turn, 

E‘er you’d exchange your love; 

In shades now may creation mourn, 

Since you unfaithful prove. 

Was it for this I credit gave 

To ev’ry oath you swore? 

But ah! it seems they most deceive, 

Who most our charms adore. 


‘Tis plain your drift was all deceit, 

The practice of mankind: 

Alas! I see it but too late, 

My love had made me blind. 

For you, delighted I could die: 

But oh! with grief I’m fill’d, 

To think that credulous constant I 

Should by your self be kill’d. 


This said – all breathless, sick and pale, 

Her head upon her hand, 

She found her vital spirits fail, 

And senses at a stand. 

Sylvander then began to melt: 

But ere the word was given, 

The heavy hand of death she felt, 

And sigh’d her soul to heaven. 

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