A SONG. (You I love, by all that's true)

You I love, by all that's true, More than all things here below; With a passion far more great, Than e'er creature loved yet: And yet still you cry, "Forbear, Love no more, or love not here!"

Bid the miser leave his ore, Bid the wretched sigh no more; Bid the old be young again, Bid the nun not think of man: Sylvia, this when you can do, Bid me then not think of you.

Love's not a thing of choice, but fate, That makes me love, that makes you hate: Sylvia, then, do what you will, Ease or cure, torment or kill, Be kind or cruel, false or true; Love I must, and none but you!