When I lie burning in thine eye,
   Or freezing in thy breast, 
What martyrs, in wish’d flames that die,
   Are half so pleas’d or blest?

When thy soft accents through mine ear
   Into my soul do fly, 
What angel would not quit his sphere,
   To hear such harmony?

Or when the kiss thou gav’st me last
   My soul stole in its breath,
What life would sooner be embrac’d 
   Than so desir’d a death?

When I commanded am by thee,
   (Or by thine eye or hand,)
What monarch would not prouder be
   To serve than to command?

Then think not freedom I desire,
   Or would my fetters leave, 
Since, phoenix-like, I from this fire
   Both life and youth receive.