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Published 1784.
Lyrics: John Whaley
Wanton gales, that fondly play
Round about my love-sick head,
Quickly waft my sighs away
To the nymph for whom I bleed.
Softly whisper in her ear,
All the pains for her I feel,
All the torments that I bear,
Tell her she alone can heal.
Then, with unsuspected care,
Gently fan her lovely breast;
Happy you may revel there,
Where each god would wish to rest.
If one spark of fond desire,
Harbour'd there by chance you find,
Raise it to a lasting fire,
Such as burns within my mind.
Wanton gales, that fondly play
Round about my love-sick head,
Quickly waft my sighs away
To the nymph for whom I bleed.
Softly whisper in her ear,
All the pains for her I feel,
All the torments that I bear,
Tell her she alone can heal.
Then, with unsuspected care,
Gently fan her lovely breast;
Happy you may revel there,
Where each god would wish to rest.
If one spark of fond desire,
Harbour'd there by chance you find,
Raise it to a lasting fire,
Such as burns within my mind.