Song

Drink ye to her that each loves best.
And if you nurse a flame
That’s told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad
Paints silently the fair,
That each should dream of joys he’s had,
Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast
From hallowed thoughts so dear;
But drink to them that we love most,
As they would love to hear.