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44

XLIX
SONG

Phillis, Men say that all my Vows
Are to thy Fortune paid;
Alas, my Heart he little knows
Who thinks my Love a Trade.
Were I, of all these Woods, the Lord,
One Berry from thy Hand
More real Pleasure would afford,
Than all my large Command.
My humble Love has learnt to live,
On what the nicest Maid,
Without a conscious Blush, may give
Beneath the Myrtle-shade.