A Song

A Song.

  1 Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize
    Reserved for your victorious eyes:
    From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
    O pity, and distinguish me!
    As I from thousand beauties more
    Distinguish you, and only you adore.



  2 Your face for conquest was design'd,
    Your every motion charms my mind;
    Angels, when you your silence break,
    Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
    But when at once they hear and view,
    Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.
  3 No graces can your form improve,
    But all are lost, unless you love;
    While that sweet passion you disdain,
    Your veil and beauty are in vain:
    In pity then prevent my fate,
    For after dying all reprieve's too late.
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A Song.

  High state and honours to others impart,
    But give me your heart:
  That treasure, that treasure alone,
    I beg for my own.
  So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,
    My soul does inspire;
  That treasure, that treasure alone,
    I beg for my own.
  Your love let me crave;
      Give me in possessing
    So matchless a blessing;
  That empire is all I would have.
      Love's my petition,
        All my ambition;
      If e'er you discover
      So faithful a lover,
      So real a flame,
      I'll die, I'll die,
      So give up my game.

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