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SONG. by Aphra Behn When Jemmy first began to love, He was the gayest swain That ever yet a flock had drove, Or danc't upon the plain. 'Twas then that I, weys me poor heart, My freedom threw away; And finding sweets in every smart, I could not say him nay. And ever when he talked of love, He would his eyes decline, And every sigh a heart would move, Gued faith, and why not mine? He'd press my hand, and kiss it oft, In silence spoke his flame. And whilst he treated me thus soft, I wisht him more to blame. Sometimes to feed my flocks with him, My Jemmy would invite me: Where he the gayest songs would sing, On purpose to delight me. And Jemmy every grace displayed, Which were enough I trow, To conquer any princely maid, So did he me, I vow. But now for Jemmy must I mourn, Who to the wars must go; His sheephook to a sword must turn: Alack, what shall I do? His bag-pipe into war-like sounds, Must now exchanged be: Instead of bracelets, fearful wounds; Then what becomes of me? Selected Writings of the Ingenious Mrs. Aphra Behn. Robert Phelps, ed.
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