A SONG.
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TO the Grove, gentle Love, let us be going,
Where the kind Spring and Wind all Day are Woing;
He with soft sighing Blasts strives to o’er-take her,
She would not tho’ she flies, have him forsake her,
But in circling Rings returning,
And in purling Whispers Mourning;
She swells and pants, as if she’d say,
Fain I would, but dare not stay.
A SONG.
Set by Mr. Fishburn.
[[Listen]]