THE London Lads Lamentation TO CUPID: OR; When shall I my True-Love have?  

All youngmen must to Cupid's power submit,  
Courage and Wisdom, Virtue too, & Wit:  
None can his mighty power & charms withstand  
He, like young Beauty, always will Command:  
And here young maidens easily may find,  
How apt youngmen are to be true & kind  
Such constancy in them could scarce be found  
Should men go search the Universe all round.   
To an Excellent New Tune, Sung at the COURT.  
This may be Printed, R. P.  
 
 

CLoes Face is Heaven to me,  
Like the Morning-Light we see;  
And the Beauty of her Eye,  
Bright and lovely, like the Sky:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

Will young Love a Tyrant be?  
Make me dote on Cruelty:  
Why doth sullen Fate confine  
Me to one that is not mine?  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

Had I Loved as others do,  
Only for an hour or two,  
Then there had a Reason been,  
I should suffer for my Sin:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

Love (thou knowst) with what a flame,  
I adore young Cloes Name:  
Let me then thy pity find,  
Shoot a Dart and change her mind:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   
 
 

All her Beauties do entice,  
Though the Nymph be cold as Ice,  
Rosie-Lips and Lilly-Skin,  
All we gaze on, Charm and win:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

On her gentle Downy Breast,  
Let a sighing Lover rest,  
Twined within those tender Arms,  
Fettered by those pleasing Charms:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

Let my Love with joys be Crowned  
You that with a Glance can Wound,  
With a Melting Kiss restore,  
Your young Love that sighed before:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

Thus you'll show your power and skill,  
Able both to Save and Kill,  
But to Kill has always been  
Held a most Notorious Sin:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

In sweet Groves we'll always dwell,  
With more joys than tongue can tell  
There the Wanton then we'll play,  
Steal each others heart away:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

You I love (by Jove) I do,  
More than all things here below,  
With a Passion full as great,  
As e'er Creature fancied yet:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

Bid the Miser leave his Ore,  
Bid the Wretched sigh no more:  
Bid the Old be Young again,  
Bid young Maids ne'er think of Men:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.   

Love's not a thing of Chance, but Fat●  
That makes me Love, that makes yo● hat●  
Then if you be false or true,  
Love I must, and none but you:  
Cloe, since my Heaven thou art,  
Ease and cure my wounded heart.    

Printed for I. Back, at the Black-Boy On London-Bridge.