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 And knit in knots far more than I Can tell by tongue, or true-love tie; Next, when those lawny films I see Play with a wild civility, And all those airy silks to flow, Alluring me, and tempting so: I must confess mine eye and heart Dotes less on Nature than on Art.

Sweet Bridget blush'd, and therewithal Fresh blossoms from her cheeks did fall. I thought at first 'twas but a dream, Till after I had handled them And smelt them, then they smelt to me As blossoms of the almond tree.

I played with Love, as with the fire The wanton Satyr did; Nor did I know, or could descry What under there was hid.

That Satyr he but burnt his lips; But mine's the greater smart, For kissing Love's dissembling chips The fire scorch'd my heart.

Civility, order.

The wanton Satyr, see Note.