DAmon, if you will believe me,
‘Tis not sighing round the plain,
Song nor sonnet can relieve ye;
Faint attempts in love are vain.
Urge but home the fair occasion,
And be master of the field;
To a powerful kind Invasion,
‘Twere a madness not to yield.
Tho’ she vows she’’ll ne’er permit ye,
Crys you’re rude, and much to blame,
And with tears implores your pity;
Be not merciful for shame.
When the fierce assault is over,
Chloris time enough will find,
This her cruel furious lover,
Much more gentle, not so kind.