To Phillis
Phillis, you little rosy rake,
That heart of yours I long to rifle;
Come, give it me, and do not make
So much ado about a trifle!
To a Lady. On Her Singing
Thy song has taught my heart to feel
Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love,
Which o’er the sainted spirits steal
When listening to the spheres above!
When, tired of life and misery,
I wish to sigh my latest breath,
Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee,
And thou shalt sing me into death.
And if along thy lip and cheek
That smile of heavenly softness play,
Which,—ah! forgive a mind that’s weak,—
So oft has stolen my mind away.
Thou’lt seem an angel of the sky,
That comes to charm me into bliss:
I’ll gaze and die—Who would not die,
If death were half so sweet as this?