Part of Lyric Harmony
Ye Nymphs whose softer Souls approve
the touching strain of Heart felt Love
I'll tell you of the gentlest Swain
that ever grac'd the rural plain.
Who but Lysander has the Pow'r
to brighten evry darksom Hour
to call a smile from Dimple sleek
or make the Blood forsake ye Cheek.
None with my Love cou'd e'er compare
For manly Beauty Gracefull air,
For speech whose accents mild inspire
Gay delight and soft desire.
This matchless Youth I now possess,
O Love abate thy fond excess,
For I am lost to all relief,
If Joy can kill as well as Grief.