Ianthe
T
hank Heaven, Ianthe, once again
Our hands and ardent lips shall meet,
And Pleasure, to assert his reign,
Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet:
Then cease repeating while you mourn,
“I wonder when he will return.”
Ah wherefore should you so admire
The flowing words that fill my song,
Why call them artless, yet require
“Some promise from that tuneful tongue?”
I doubt if heaven itself could part
A tuneful tongue and tender heart.