S O N G
As Flavia the fair lately tripped o’er the plain,
The woe of each nymph, but the joy of each swain,
The dear charmer to see I flew out with the rest,
She singled me out, and me only addressed.
Love’s sweet soothing pain through my blood instant flew,
With rapture I trembled, my breath deeper drew,
On scenes of delight my crazed fancy did rove,
And what was but pity, I construed love.
Though nursed up in want, bred in poverty’s school,
The May-game of shepherds, of fortune the fool,
Though none but my Colin (that faithful young swain)
Doth grieve at my sorrow and pity my pain.
Yet if my dear Flavia would deign but to bear
A shepherd’s fond tale with unprejudiced ear,
At fortune Id laugh, the swain’s frowns would despise,
For all danger I scorn when fair Flavia’s the prize.
Oh cease thy fond hopes, simple shepherd beware,
Joy oftentimes shines but to light to despair;
Though she should prove kind, still the worst remains yet,
For her thou can’st know, thou thyself must forget.