Page:Keys of love (1).pdf/6

( 6 ) My grief I cannot mother,

I’m bound in love’s ick chain.

For Cupid has ennar’d me,

His cruel dart deceiv'd me,

And the title that he gave me,

Is the wounded Farmer’s Son.

How fatal was the morning?

When firt I aw my darling!

Amongt the nymphs o charming,

Down by a myrtle grove.

While birds they join'd in chorus,

Their harmony melodious,

The bleating lambs a-porting,

To pleae the maid I love.

I aid. My lovely creature,

The weetet work of nature,

She’s weet in every feature,

My darling’s all divine.

Her parkling eyes adorning,

Like twinkling tars in morning,

When Phœbus firt give warning,

His beauteous beams do hine.

Could I obtain her favour.

Who’s won my heart for ever,

But in vain I fear my labour,

She being a Lady born;

But my birth it would degrade her,

But yet I'm bound to love her,

Becaue he is o clever,

I am but a Farmer’s Son.