THO’ cruel you seem to my pain,
And hate me because I am true;
Yet, Phillis, you love a false swain,
Who has other nymphs in his view.
Enjoyment’s a trifle to him,
To me what a heaven it would be;
To him but a woman you seem,
But ah! you’re an angel to me:
Those lips which he touches in haste,
To them I for ever could grow,
Still clinging around that dear waist,
Which he spanns as beside him you go;
That arm, like a lilly so white,
Which over his shoulders you lay,
My bosom could warm it all night,
My lips they would press it all day.
Were I like a monarch to reign,
Were graces my subjects to be,
I’d leave them, and fly to the plain,
To dwell in a cottage with thee:
But if I must feel thy disdain,
If tears cannot cruelty drown,
O! let me not live in this pain,
But give my death in a frown.