SONGS.
67
To kneel, to languiſh and implore;
And ſtill tho' ſhe diſdain, adore:
It is to do all this, and think thy ſufferings ſweet.
It is to gaze upon her eyes
With eager joy and fond ſurpriſe;
Yet temper'd with fuch chaſle and awful fear
As wretches feel who wait their doom;
Nor muſt one ruder thought preſume
Tho' but in whiſpers breath'd, to meet her ear.
It is to hope, tho' hope were loſt;
Tho' heaven and earth thy paſſion croſt;
Tho' ſhe were bright as ſainted queens above,
And thou the leaſt and meaneſt ſwain
That folds his flock upon the plain,
Yet if thou dar'ſt not hope, thou doſt not love.
It
