Song. the Faithful Nymph

Escap'd my love the cannon's ire, That thunders o'er the troubled main? Escap'd my love the fever's five, That burns so fierce on India's plain? That face grows wan by sultry clime, By watching, dim, those radiant eyes: But love disdains the rage of time, Tho' youth decays, tho' beauty flies.

O! if he has, I can resign With scarce a sigh the blooming grace, That in his form was wont to shine; An honest heart is all to me, Nor soil nor time makes that look old; And dearer shall the jewel be, Than youth or beauty, fame or gold.