Flora's lamentable passion, Crown'd with unspeakable Joy and Comfort,
Flora she did sore lament,
her Spirit did decay;
Strephon fill'd her with content,
and cast all Grief away.
To the Tune of, Tender hearts of London City.
FLoras in her Grove she lyed,
Sighing panting thus she cryed,
Strephon thou art fled from me;
O my Swain I may complain,
for thou dost prove unkind I see.
I was ever chaste and Loyal,
O it is a grevious tryal,
that we should separated be:
Cupits Dart, hath pierc'd my heart,
alas my joys are fled from me.
Here I sit in grief afflicted,
By my love I am rejected,
sorrows hath compast me round;
Insulting Death, come stop my breath,
and let not grief in me abound.
The pretty little Lambs lamented,
Seeming to be discontented,
Hearing of her make this moan;
Quoth she my pain I can't contain,
for all my joys are from me flown.
He a thousand times hath kist me,
And as many times has blest me,
calling me his only joy;
But now I find he proves unkind,
which doth my comforts quite destroy.
With sweet language thou didst woe me
And with comforts did'st indue me,
yet thou proved'st most false I see;
Remember now thy former vow,
which thou didst make in secresie,
I was never fond and fickle,
Down her Cheeks the tears did trickle,
and her colour waxed pale,
With complaint, her heart did faint,
quoth she, I find my spirits fail.
Strephons Answer to Flora's Complaint.
In the midst of all her trouble,
Strephon did her joys redouble,
with a sweet oblieging way;
He did her greet, quoth he my sweet,
my Love is fixt from all decay.
Floras I do dearly love thee,
I esteem no one above thee,
thou shalt have thy hearts delight;
Then here's my hand, do thou command
and I will serve thee day and night.
Though I seemed to be parted,
Yet I am more loyal hearted,
my Love is linked unto thee;
Take hand and heart, we'l never part,
thou art my life and liberty.
Floras I in heart adore thee,
I prefer no one before thee,
thou hast a sweet oblieging Eye;
I'le ne'r be cruel to my Iewel,
but be faithful till I dye.
Do not think that I will slight thee,
I endeavour to delight thee,
nothing shall my love annoy;
I will nourish, and will cherish,
my sweet Floras, my true joy.
Printed for J. Deacon, at the Angel in Guilt-spur street without Newgate.