Tho' his passion, in silence, the youth…

Tho' his passion, in silence, the youth would conceal, What his tongue would not utter, his eyes still reveal; And by soft stolen glances unwillingly prove, That they are the tell-tales of Celadon's love.

To the grove, or the green, to the dance, or the fair, Wherever I go, my blithe shepherd is there; I know the fond youth by his blush and his smile, And surely such looks were not made to beguile.

Tho' indiff'rent the subject, whatever it prove, He insensibly turns the discourse upon love; If he talks to another, with pleasure I see, Tho' his words are to her, yet his looks are to me.

When he speaks, if alone, I am even in fear He should say what I dread, and yet wish most to hear: Should he mention his love, tho' my pride would deny, My heart whispers, Celia, fond Celia, comply.