In some kind dream upon her slumbers steal,
And to Lucinda all, I beg, reveal:
Breathe gentlest words into her ears,
Words full of love, but full of fears,
Such words as may prevail like pray'rs
From a poor dying martyr's tongue,
By that sweet voice of pity sung.
Touch with the voice the more enchanting lute,
To make the charms strike all repulses mute;
These may insensibly impart
My tender wishes to her heart,
And by a sympathetic force
So tune its strings to love's discourse,
That, when my griefs compel a groan,
Her sighs may echo to my moan.