The Lass of the Hill.
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AT the brow of a Hill,
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a fair Shepherdess dwelt,
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Who the Pangs of Ambition,
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of Love neer had felt;
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A few sober Maxims,
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still run in her Head,
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Thattwas best for to ern.
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eer she Eat her brown Bread;
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That to rise with the Lark,
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was conducive to Health,
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And to rest in a Cottage,
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contentment was wealth.
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Young Roger who lived,
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in the Vally belowr
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Who at Church and at Market,
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was reckond a Beau,
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Would oftentimes try.
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oer the Hearts to prevail,
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And rest on hie Pitchfork,
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to tell her his Tales;
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That with ease his Addresses,
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soon gaind on her Heart,
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Being Artless herself
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she suspected no Art,
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He flatterd, protested,
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he kneeld and implord,
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And his Lies still with Oaths,
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he would grace like a Lord,
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Het Eyes he commended,
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with Language well drest,
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And enlarged on the Tortures,
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he felt on her breast;
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With Sighs and with Tears,
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he so softend her mind,
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That with downright Compassion,
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to Love she inclined.
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But no sooner hed Melted,
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the ice in her breast,
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The heat of his Passion,
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that Moment decreased,
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And now he goes flanting;
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all over toe Vale,
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And boasts on his Conquest,
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to Richard and Hall,
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Tho he sees her but seldom,
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hees always in haste,
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And when eer he speaks of her,
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he makes her his Jest.
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Take heed therefore Maidens,
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of Britains fair Isle,
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How you venture your Hearts,
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for a look or a Smile,
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For young Cupid is Artful,
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and Virgins are frail.
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And youll find a false Roger,
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in every Vale;
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Who to Court you and tempt you,
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will try all their Skill,
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But remember the Lass,
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at the Brow of the Hill.
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