THE Suffering LOVER: OR, Fair FLORAMELLA's Melting Petition TO HER Dear PHILANDER.  
To an excellent new Tune. Licenced according to Order.  

IN the deserts of Greenland,  
where the sun ne'er cast an eye,  
Blest with thee, my dear Philander,  
I could choose to live and die:  
No nymph with her fly subtle art,  
E'er shall have power to steal my heart,  
Thou art all in all in every part,  
Each vein of me, shall ever be  
Panting for love of thee.   

On the sands of scorched afric,  
where the sunburned natives fry,  
Blest with thee, my dear Philander,  
I could choose to live and die:  
No swain with his aid, wit, or art,  
E'er shall have power to storm my heart,  
Thou art all in all in every part,  
Each vein of me, shall ever be  
Panting for love of me.   

In deserts of Arabia,  
from which place all creatures fly,  
Blest with thee, my dear Philander,  
I could choose to live and die:  
Such pleasures I with thee should find,  
That would ease the anguish of my mind,  
For to none but thee will I e'er be kind,  
Each vein of me, shall ever be  
Panting for love of thee.   

Through the greatest of danger,  
I would venture with my dear,  
And my heart should be a stranger,  
to the sad effects of fear:  
If on the raging ocean sea,  
Thou would then my skilful pilot be,  
Therefore through the world I'd wander with thee,  
Each vein of me, shall every be  
Panting for love of thee.   

No joys are worth possessing,  
through the universe below,  
Should I be denied the blessing,  
of my dear Philander, tho'  
I might enjoy a diadem,  
And in golden streams of pleasure swim,  
I would slight them all in respect of him,  
Whom evermore, I will adore,  
He has my heart in store.   

Fly to thy Floramella,  
for to cheer her drooping heart;  
Should I wear the wreath willow,  
'Twould be like a fatal dart:  
Then dear Philander come away,  
I long to see the delightful day,  
Which will crown our joy with innocent play,  
Each vein of me, shall ever be  
Panting for love of thee.   

Let me never be slighted  
for the love which I bear,  
Lest my wrongs they should be righted,  
by your languishing despair;  
For should you kill me with disdain,  
Then tears and sorrow would be in vain,  
A lost life they can't recover again,  
The veins in me, shall ever be  
Panting for love of thee.   
FINIS.   

LONDON: Printed for C. Bates, at the White-hare in West-smithfield.