BLIND Love, to this hour, Had never like me, a Slave under his Pow'r. Then blest be the Dart That he threw at my heart, For nothing can prove A joy so great as to be wounded with love. My Days and my Nights Are fill'd to the purpose with sorrows and frights; From my heart still I sigh, And my Eyes are ne'r dry, So that, @3Cupid@1 be prais'd. I am to the top of Love's happiness rais'd. My Soul's all on fire So that I have the pleasure to dote and desire, Such a pretty soft pain, That it tickles each vein, 'Tis the dream of a smart, Which makes me breathe short when it beats at my heart. Sometimes in a Pet, When I am despis'd, I my freedom would get; But straight a sweet smile Does my anger beguile, And my heart does recall, Then the more I do struggle the lower I fall. Heaven does not impart Such a grace as to love unto ev'ry one's heart; For many may wish To be wounded, and miss. Then blest be loves Fire, And more blest her Eyes that first taught me desire. |