DO not ask me, charming Phillis,
Why I lead you hear alone,
By this bank of pinks and lillies,
And of roses newly blown.
‘Tis not to behold the beauty,
Of these flowers that crown the spring;
‘Tis to — but I know my duty,
And dare never name the thing.
‘Tis at worst but her denying,
Why shou’d I thus fearful be?
Every minute gently flying,
Smiles and says, make use of me.
What the sun does to the roses,
While the beams play sweetly in,
I would — but my fear opposes,
And I dare not name the thing.
Yet I die if I conceal it;
Ask my eyes, or ask your own,
And if neither can reveal it,
Think what lovers think alone.
On this bank of pinks and lillies,
Might I speak what I would do,
I wou’d — with my lovely Phillis,
I wou’d; I wou’d — Ah! wou’d you.