Poem by Thomas Gent

* * *

Come, Jenny, let me sip the dew,
That on those coral lips doth play,
One kiss would every care subdue,
And bid my weary soul be gay.

For surely, thou wert form'd by love
To bless the suffrer's parting sigh;
In pity then, my griefs remove,
And on that bosom let me die! 

1. Henry and Eliza
2. To a Fly, on the Bosom of Chloe, While Sleeping
3. Lines, Written on the Sixth of September
4. To ––––
5. When the Rough Storm Roars Round the Peasant's Cot

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