For a song I'm in excellent strain,
My spirits are light as a feather;
I have got my gay heart back again,
That late was in love's heavy tether:
No longer I'll sigh in despair,
No longer a sad silly fellow;
You may see tho' I have had care,
Yet my temper is cheerful and mellow.

II.

For Chloe I died on the rack,
While Philis for me was despairing,
Yet love ever runs in this track,
In spite of our cursing and caring.
Let fools then at destiny swear,
I leave them to bluster and bellow:
You may see tho' I have had care,
Yet my temper is cheerful and mellow.

III.

Good Lord, when I think of her eyes,
I ask how I lived thro' my sorrow:
How madness could cool or grow wise,
That ever grew worse with the morrow.
Am I cured by the bowl or the fair,
Is it punch, or a kind punchinello:
You may see tho' I have had care,
Yet my temper is cheerful and mellow.

IV.

If any be struck deep as I,
By Jove he must run and not reason:
Like me make an effort and fly,
And drink in her absence a season.
Sing this, and soft music beware,
Flute, fiddle, and violencello.
And he'll find tho' he has had care,
That he'll soon become cheerful and mellow.

V.

Perhaps you might wish me to shew,
How a heart that is hit may recover;
By Jove, if he dangles, I know
No maxim to save a true lover.
He must gallop from jealous despair,
Nor wait to be cursed like Othello:
And he'll find tho' he has had care,
That he'll soon become cheerful and mellow.

VI.

Then lovers, if any there be,
Who wish son a cure at this table,
In my song an example you see,
When willing, how much we are able,
For tho' its no elegant air,
With a cadence of fine Rhetornello:
You may see tho' I have had care,
Yet my temper is cheerful and mellow.