What shall I do to shew how much I love her?
Thoughts that oppress me, O how can I tell?
Will my soft passion be able to move her?
Language is wanting, when loving so well.
Can sighs and tears, in the silence, betoken
Half the distress this fond bosom must know?
Or will she melt when a true heart is broken,
Weeping, too late, o'er her lost lover's woe.

Is there a grace comes not playful before her?
Is there a virtue, and not in her train?
Is there a swain but delights to adore her?
Pains she a heart, but it boasts of her chain?
Could I believe she'd prevent my undoing,
Life's gayest fancies the hope should renew;
Or could I think she'd be pleas'd with my ruin,
Death should persuade her my sorrows are true!