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Song I [Come, Fair Rosina, Come Away]
by [?]


Come, fair Rosina, come away,
Long since stern Winter’s storms have ceas’d;
See! Nature, in her best array,
Invites us to her rural feast:
The season shall her treasure spread,
Her mellow fruits and harvests brown,
Her flowers their richest odours shed,
And ev’ry breeze pour fragrance down.


At noon we’ll seek the wild wood’s shade,
And o’er the pathless verdure rove;
Or, near a mossy fountain laid,
Attend the music of the grove;
At eve, the sloping mead invites
‘Midst lowing herds and flocks to stray;
Each hour shall furnish new delights,
And love and joy shall crown the day.