Odes, Ode VI

Why will dear Aminta find Ills beyond the present Hour? Why torment her gentle Mind, With malicious Fortune's Power? To Fate belongs Tomorrow's Dawn, But let To-day be all our own.

While 'tis given to hear thy Voice Breathe the Softness of thy Soul, Let us, dearest Maid, rejoice, Let us fill the sprightly Bowl; And whispering low the favor'd Youth, Commend his Tenderness and Truth.

Wherefore does thy fading Cheek Speak the Doubt, the tender Fear? Why that faint Effort to speak? Tell me, why that starting Tear? Does Damon slight thy gentle Chain, And sigh for Rhodope again?

Ah! too plain that streaming Eye Speaks my lov'd Aminta's Pain: Vain the Voice of festive Joy, Sorrow waits the Lover's Train: Too weak, Alas! the powerful Bowl To cure this Sickness of the Soul.