As any in the world thou’lt find,—
That heart I’ll give to thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart;
Thou art the world to me:
And if thy will thou’lt but impart,
I’ll do’t, or die for thee.
Letters but fondly trace, at best,
The thoughts which fill a lover's breast;
And words but feebly can impart
The warm affection of the heart.
How then shall I my love reveal,
Or speak its power, or conceal
The anxious hope, the affection true,
The love which lives alone for you.
Art thou not dear unto my heart;
Ah! search that heart and see,
And from my bosom tear the part
Which beats not true to thee.
But to that bosom thou art dear,
More dear than words can tell:
And if a fault be cherished there,
'Tis loving thee too well.
Cupid, god that rules my heart;
To my lovely maid impart
My prayers, my vows, my love sincere,
To her fair hands this letter bear,
And let the lovely maid divine,
Become my faithful Valentine.
This little ring I offer you,
Conveys to you my heart;
’Tis wounded, but I know, my dear,
You soon can heal the smart.
