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 I’m starving cold, whilst thou art warm;

have pity and incline,

And grant me for a hap that charming petticoat otof [sic] thine.

My ravish'd fancy, in amaze,

still wanders o‘er thy charms;

Delusive dreams, ten thousand ways,

present thee to my arms,

Then waking think what I endure;

while cruel you decline

Those pleasures, which can only cure

this panting breast of mine.

I faint, I fail, I wildly rove,

because you still deny

The just reward that's due to love,

and let true passion die.

Oh, turn, and let compassion seize

that lovely breast of thine:

Thy petticoat would give me ease,

if thou and it were mine.

Sure Heav'n has fitted for delight

that beauteous form of thine,

And thour't too good its laws to slight;

by hind'ring the design,

May all the powers of love agree,

at length to make thee mine;

Or loose my chains, and set me free

from every charm of thine.