THE CHARMS of MELODY, SONG 104

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

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

To a heart full love let me hold thee, A heart which, dear Chloe, is thine; In my arms I'd for ever enfold thee, And twist round thy neck like a vine: What joy can be greater than this is! My life on thy lips shall be spent: But the wretch who can number his kisses, Will always with few be content.