Chloe

Dear Chloe, come give me sweet kisses, For sweeter no girl ever gave; But why, in the midst of my blisses, Dost ask me how many I'd have? I'm not to be stinted in pleasure; Then, prythe, dear Chloe be kind; For since I love thee out of measure, To numbers I'll ne'er be consin'd.

Count the bees that on Hybla are playing; Count the flow'rs that enamel the fields; Count the flocks that in Tempe are straying, And the grain that in rich Sicily yields; Count how many stars are in Heav'n; Go number the sands on the shore; And when so many kisses you've giv'n, I still shall be asking for more.

To a heart full of love let me hold thee, A heart which, dear Chloe, is thine; In my arms let me ever infold thee, And circle thee round like a vine. What joy can be greater than this is? My lise on your lips shall be spent: The wretch that can number his kisses, Will always with few be content.