The Thorn

From the white blossom?d sloe,
My dear Cloe requested,
A sprig her fair breast to adorn,
No by heavens I exclaim?d,
May I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn,
No by heav?ns!

When I shew?d her a ring,
And implor?d her to marry,
She blush?d like the dawning of morn,
Yes I?ll consent, she reply?d,
If you?ll promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.

Then I gave her a kiss,
And next morning we wedded,
Then joyous we danced on the lawn,
And now, by heavens; she exclaims,
May she perish,
If ever she plants in my bosom a thorn.

Having made her my bride,
Soft love seal?d our marriage;
Our union true bliss now adorns:
And may heaven inspire both of our bosoms,
That neither may plant in the other a thorn.

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