Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lyes a corps on the Braes of Yarrow. 120
IF THIS pale Rose offend your Sight,
It in your Bosom wear;
'Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian there.
But, Celia, should the Red be chose, 5
With gay Vermilion bright;
'Twou'd sicken at each Blush that glows,
And in Despair turn White.
Let Politicians idly prate,
Their Babels build in vain; 10 As uncontrolable as Fate,
Imperial Love shall reign.
Each haughty Faction shall obey,
And Whigs, and Tories join,
Submit to your Despotick Sway, 15 Confess your Right Divine.
Yet this (my gracious Monarch) own,
They're Tyrants that oppress;
'Tis Mercy must support your Throne,
And 'tis like Heav'n to Bless. 20