A new blown Rose kist by the Morning Dew,
Has not more natural Sweetness.
Ah Cloris! can you doubt that Heart,
To whom such Blessings you impart?
Unjustly you suspect that Prize,
Won by such Touches and such Eyes.
My Fairest, turn that Face away,
Unless I could for ever stay;
Turn but a little while I go.
Clo. Sir, I must see the last of you.