FIE! Liza, scorn the little arts,
Which meaner beautys use,
Who think they ne’er secure our hearts,
Unless they still refuse;
Are coy and shy; will seem to frown,
To raise our passion higher;
But when the poor delight is known,
It quickly palls desire.
Come, let’s not trifle time away,
Or stop you know not why;
Your blushes and your eyes betray
What death you mean to die!
Let all your maiden fears be gone,
And love no more be crost:
Ah! Liza, when the joys are known,
You’ll curse the minutes past.