The posy he's plucked you looks fine;
Though I must say my fancy it struck,
It was not wholly new—in design.
However, dear Chloe, you're sweet; 'tis fair weather;
So, Corydon, let's sing her praises—together—
They sing:—
Her charms—since she possessed the Vote—
Are things on which the swains all dote.
Fearing to flout or slight.
She dances, having now her way,