Still wert thou present, only thee
With ceaseless pleasure I could see;
Can ought afford such high delight
As beauty to the lover's sight?
Like thine no form my eyes can charm,
No other face my bosom warm;
When absent, none can fix my eye,
None else I see, when thou art by.
If present in my dying hour,
So great is love, and beauty's pow'r,
My closing eyes would thee survey,
And gaze their parting look away.
Looks are the language of the heart,
And more than words express impart;
'Tis only in his mistress' eyes
The lover lives, the lover dies.
Oh! could I only half so dear,
As thou to me, to thee appear;
However other eyes may see,
Could I but pleasing seem to thee!
Ah! let at least my passion move,
I've nothing else to plead but love;
Forbear thy pow'r of doing ill,
And save the lover thou might'st kill.