Three Songs

As freezing fountains, when the sun
goes off their streams withhold,
and to their own embraces run
'till all congeal'd with cold;

Or as a hopeless drooping flow'r
for day departed grieves,
possest of nothing but a show'r
of tears upon her leaves

Such am I in your absence left
so like these mourner's show,
that brooks and flow'rs of day bereft
are pictures of my woe.

In vain does Nature's bounteous hand supply
What peevish mortals to themselves deny.
See how on ev'ry bough, the birds express
In their wild notes their happiness:
Not anxious how to get or spare,
They on their Mother Nature lay their care.
Why then should Man, the lord of all below,
Such troubles choose to know,
As none of all his subjects undergo?

A lover I'm born and a lover I'll be,
And hope from my love I shall never be free.
Let wisdom abound in teh grave womanhater,
Yet never to love is a sign of ill nature.
But he who loves well and whose passion is strong
Can never be wretched, but ever be young.

With hopes and with fears, like a ship in the ocean,
Our hearts are kept dancing, and ever in motion:
When our passion is pall'd and our fancy would fail,
Some little quarrel supplies a fresh gale:
But when the doubt's clear'd and the jealousy's gone
How we kiss and embrace, and can never have done.