To Delia, Wrote on a Leaf in Her Pocket-book

Go little leaf, and to the fair, The mistress of my heart; My truth and constancy declare, My ardent love impart.

But how shall thy small page contain That which no bounds controul? Or how shall feeble words explain The transports of the soul?

Go, tell her then that nothing less Than a whole life of love, Can all my joy in her express, Can my fix'd passion prove.

That nought but death can from my mind, Her dear idea part, And lovely Delia ne'er shall find A rival in my heart.

Go, tell her all our peaceful years In mutual bliss we'll spend; And hope to meet beyond the spheres, When this frail life shall end.