To the Tune of, I wish my love were in a mire.
O Lovely maid! how dear’s thy pow’r?
At once I love, at once adore:
With wonder are my thoughts possest,
While softest love inspires my breast.
This tender look, these eyes of mine,
Confess their am’rous master thine;
These eyes with Strephon’s passion play,
First make me love, and then betray.
Yes, charming victor, I am thine,
Poor as it is, this heart of mine
Was never in another’s pow’r,
Was never pierc’d by love before.
In thee I’ve treasur’d up my joy,
Thou cant’st give bliss, or bliss destroy:
And thus I’ve bound myself to love,
While bliss or misery can move.
O should I ne’er possess thy charms,
Ne’er meet my comfort in thy arms;
Were hopes of dear enjoyment gone,
Still would I love, love thee alone.
But like some discontented shade
That wanders where its body’s laid,
Mournful I’d roam with hollow glare,
For ever exil’d from my fair.
– New Words by Different Hands.