Be still, thou busy foolish thing,
Nor urge me more of her to sing
''aWho [causfhd] all thy pain.
Why wilt thou dwell upon a theme
Which serves but to increase your [flame],
''aThat still must burn in vain?
Thus to my heart I oft have said,
But as the dear enchanting maid
''aHas seized my soul entire,
My reason with my love combined
Is grown to every danger blind,
''aAnd joins to fan the fire.
Why pay we to the pow'rs above
Our adoration and our love,
''aBut that they perfect are?
Though mortals cannot perfect be,
The nearest to perfection she,
''aThe next our love should share.
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Other Poems of Interest...
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