SHEW me no more the Marigold, Whose leaves like grieved arms do fold, My longings nothing can explain, But soul and body rent in twain, Did I not moan, And sign and groan, And talk alone, I should believe my Soul were gone from home: She's gone, she's gone, away she's fled, Within thy breast to make her bed; In me there dwells her tenant, woe, And sighs are all the breath I blow: Then come to me, One touch of thee Will make me see Whether living thus, alive or dead, I be. |