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And seek with her a brighter glory
Than ever fill'd the page of story.
But ill my service is repaid,
For Love has planted in my breast
A pang that will not give me rest—
Nor heeds the mischief he has made.
My senses are by passion driven,
On to the very gates of heaven;
Delight is handmaid to desire,
My eyes are bright with fire
Whose rays out-pour'd upon my heart
A sense of blessedness impart.
And then love strengthens while it grows,
And transport's fountain overflows,
My heart is like a stream of pleasure
That knows no ebb and knows no measure,
Which love pours out in eager joy—
Love—source of rapture—and annoy—
To which I turn me fond and true,
As opening roses to the dew.
