SONG.

DEar Aminda, in vain you so coily refuse,
What nature and Love do inspire;
That formal old way which your Mother did use,
Can never confine the desire
It rather adds Oyl to the fire.

When the tempting delights of woing are lost,
And pleasure's a Duty become;
We both shall appear, like some dead Lovers ghost,
To frighten each other from home;
And the Genial bed like a Tombe.

Now, low at your feet your fond Lover will lye,
And seek a new Fate in your eyes;
One Amorous smile will exalt him so high,
He can all but Aminda despise;
Then change to a frown, and he dies.

To love, and each other, we'll ever be true;
But to raise our Enjoyments by Art,
We'll often fall out, and as often renew,
For to wound and cure the smart,
Is the pleasure which captives the Heart