Flora's lamentable passion, Crowned with unspeakable Joy and Comfort,  
Flora she did sore lament,  
her Spirit did decay;  
Strephon filled her with content,  
and cast all Grief away.  
To the Tune of, Tender hearts of London City.  
 
 

Floras' in her Grove she lied,  
Sighing panting thus she cried,  
Strephon thou art fled from me;  
O my Swain I may complain,  
for thou dost prove unkind I see.   

I was ever chaste and Loyal,  
O it is a grievous trial,  
that we should separated be:  
Cupits Dart, hath pierced my heart,  
alas my joys are fled from me.   

Here I sit in grief afflicted,  
By my love I am rejected,  
sorrows hath compassed me round;  
Insulting Death, come stop my breath,  
and let not grief in me abound.   
 
 

The pretty little Lambs lamented,  
Seeming to be discontented,  
Hearing of her make this moan;  
Quoth she my pain I can't contain,  
for all my joys are from me flown.   

He a thousand times hath kissed me,  
And as many times has blest me,  
calling me his only joy;  
But now I find he proves unkind,  
which doth my comforts quite destroy.   

With sweet language thou didst woo me  
And with comforts didst endue me,  
yet thou provedest most false I see;  
Remember now thy former vow,  
which thou didst make in secrecy,   

I was never fond and fickle,  
Down her Cheeks the tears did trickle,  
and her colour waxed pale,  
With complaint, her heart did faint,  
quoth she, I find my spirits fail.   

Strephon's Answer to Flora's Complaint.  
In the midst of all her trouble,  
Strephon did her joys redouble,  
with a sweet obliging way;  
He did her greet, quoth he my sweet,  
my Love is fixed from all decay.   

Flora's I do dearly love thee,  
I esteem no one above thee,  
thou shalt have thy heart's delight;  
Then here's my hand, do thou command  
and I will serve thee day and night.   

Though I seemed to be parted,  
Yet I am more loyal hearted,  
my Love is linked unto thee;  
Take hand and heart, we'll never part,  
thou art my life and liberty.   

Flora's I in heart adore thee,  
I prefer no one before thee,  
thou hast a sweet obliging Eye;  
I'll ne'er be cruel to my jewel,  
but be faithful till I die.   

Do not think that I will slight thee,  
I endeavour to delight thee,  
nothing shall my love annoy;  
I will nourish, and will cherish,  
my sweet Flora's, my true joy.    

Printed for J. Deacon, at the Angel in Guilt-spur street without Newgate.