THE
Suffering LOVER:
OR,
Fair FLORAMELLAs Melting Petition
TO HER
Dear PHILANDER.
To an excellent new Tune.
Licensed according to Order.
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IN the desarts of Greenland,
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where the sun ne'er cast an eye,
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Blest with thee, my dear Philander,
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I could chuse to live and dye:
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No nymph with her sly subtil art,
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E'er shall have power to steal my heart,
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Thou art all in all in every part,
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Each vein of me, shall ever be
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Panting for love of thee.
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On the sands of scorch't Africk,
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where the sun-burn'd natives fry,
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Blest with thee, my dear Philander,
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I could chuse to live and dye:
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No swain with his aid, wit, or art,
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E'er shall have power to storm my heart,
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Thou art all in all in every part,
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Each vein of me, shall ever be
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Panting for love of me.
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In desarts of Arabia,
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from which place all creatures fly,
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Blest with thee, my dear Philander,
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I could chuse to live and dye:
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Such pleasures I with thee should find,
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That would ease the anguish of my mind,
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For to none but thee will I e'er be kind,
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Each vein of me, shall ever be
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Panting f[o]r love of thee.
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Thro' the greatest of danger,
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I would venture with my dear,
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And my heart should be a stranger,
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to the sad effects of fear:
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If on the raging ocean sea,
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Thou would then my skilful pilot be,
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Therefore thro' the world I'd wander with thee,
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Each vein of me, shall every be
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Panting for love of thee.
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No joys are worth possessing,
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thro' the universe below,
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Should I be deny'd the blessing,
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of my dear Ph[i]lander, tho
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I might enjoy a diadem,
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And in golden streams of pleasure swim,
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I would slight them all in respect of him,
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Whom evermore, I will adore,
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He has my heart in store.
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Fly to thy Floramella,
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for to chear her drooping heart;
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Should I wear the wreath willow,
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be like a fatal dart:
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Then dear Philander come away,
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I long to see the delightful day,
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Which will crown our joy with innocent play,
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Each vein of me, shall ever be
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Panting for love of thee.
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Let me never be slighted
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for the love which I bear,
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Least my wrongs they should be righted,
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by your languishing despair;
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For should you kill me with disdain,
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Then tears and sorrow would be in vain,
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A lost life they can't recover again,
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The veins in me, shall ever be
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Panting for love of thee.
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