Blow, ye bleak winds, around my head
And sooth my heart-corroding care.
Flash round my brows, ye lightnings red,
And blast the laurels planted there,
But may the maid, where'er she be,
Think not of my distress nor me.

May all the traces of our love
Be ever blotted from her mind.
May from her breast my vows remove
And no remembrance leave behind.
But may the maid, where'er she be,
Think not of my distress nor me.

O! may I ne'er behold her more,
For she has robb'd my soul of rest.
Wisdom's assistance is too poor
To calm the tempest in my breast.
But may the maid, where'er she be,
Think not of my distress nor me.

Come death, O come, thou friendly sleep
And with my sorrows lay me low,
And should the gentle virgin weep,
Nor sharp nor lasting be her woe.
But may she think, where'er she be,
No more of my distress nor me.