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 Believe me, you will most Esteem it when 'tis lost; Then it no longer keep, Lest issue lie asleep. Then, away; come, Hymen, guide To the bed the bashful bride.

These precious, pearly, purling tears But spring from ceremonious fears. And 'tis but native shame That hides the loving flame, And may a while control The soft and am'rous soul; But yet love's fire will waste Such bashfulness at last. Then, away; come, Hymen, guide To the bed the bashful bride.

Night now hath watch'd herself half blind, Yet not a maidenhead resign'd! 'Tis strange, ye will not fly To love's sweet mystery. Might yon full moon the sweets Have, promised to your sheets, She soon would leave her sphere, To be admitted there. Then, away; come, Hymen, guide To the bed the bashful bride.