The mill, mill O!

Fie! Mary, to be so unkind,

And cruel hoard thy blisses!

Those lips for rapture were design'd,

Then let me steal their kisses.

What, tho' a score or two I take?

Be gen'rous, girl, and scorn 'em!

Yet shou'dst thou pout to have them back,

I promise to return 'em.