I NE'ER could any lustre see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid who seeks my heart Cheeks of rose, untouched by art? I will own the colour true When yielding blushes aid their bue. Is her hand so soft and pure? I must press it, to be sure; Nor can I be certain then, Till it, grateful, press again. Must I. with attentive eye, Watch her heaving bosom sigh? I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me. |