Song

YE gentle Nymphs and gen'rous Dames
That rule o'er ev'ry British mind!
Be sure ye sooth their am'rous flames,
Be sure your laws are not unkind:

For hard it is to wear their bloom
In unremitting sighs away,
To mourn the night's oppressive gloom,
And faintly bless the rising day.

And cruel 'twere a free-born swain,
A British youth, should vainly moan,
Who, scornful of a tyrant's chain,
Submits to your's, and your's alone.

Nor pointed spear nor links of steel
Could e'er those gallant minds subdue,
Who Beauty's wounds with pleasure feel,
And boast the fetters wrought by you.