Why strive You, Flora! thus, to hide
The Kindness You have for me,
And force your self to frown, and chide,
And tell me, You abhor me?

'Tis vain, on me, your Arts to try,
Who know your Inclination:
For in your Eyes I plainly spy
Your Anger's Affectation.

Cease, then, to vex your self, and me,
There needs no further Tryal:
Your Love's as great as mine can be,
In Spight of your Denyal.