Air XLVIII. o Bessy Bell
Polly.
A Curse attend that Woman’s Love,
Who always would be pleasing.
Lucy.
The Pertness of the billing Dove,
Like Tickling, is but teazing.
Polly.
What then in Love can Woman do:
Lucy.
If we grow fond they shun us.
Polly.
And when we fly them, they pursue:
Lucy.
But leave us when they’ve won us.
Lucy. Love is so very whimsical in both Sexes, that it is impossible to be lasting.—But my Heart is particular, and contradicts my own Observation.
Polly. But really, Mistress Lucy, by his last Behaviour, I think I ought to envy you.—When I was forc’d from him, he did not shew the least Tenderness.—But perhaps, he hath a Heart not capable of it.