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H! grieve with me, for I have loſt,

What to my ſoul is dear;

In meagre black deſpair I'm toſt,

And in my hot love paſſion croſt,

I now a ghoſt appear.

Now o'er the mead where flowers grow,

And yield a fragrant ſmell,

Alone I penſive wand'ring go,

And look a melancholy woe,

And ſigh for cruel Nell.

Her beauteous face, her iv'ry neck,

Her moulding boſom round,

Raiſe ſuch deſire in me, e-feck;

I fear at laſt my heart will break,

Behold in tears I'm drown'd.

But then her ſhape 'tis ſuch a one,

That I could almoſt ſpan.

But oh! ſhe's gone, and I'm undone!

And oh! alas! fure as a gun,

I am a dying man.

Ah! what a taper leg has ſhe,

And ah! her ſnowy thighs;

And garter'd too above the knee,

'Tis true (if you'll but believe me)

Or elſe I tell a lye.