The Eyes

To kiss a pair of red lips small Full many a lover sighs; If I kiss anything at all, Let it be Sophy’s eyes. The eyes, the eyes, whose witcheries Have filled my heart with care; Too dear I prize the eyes, the eyes Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

Were I the Czar, my kingly crown, My troops and victories, And fair renown I’d all lay down To kiss but Sophy’s eyes. The charming eyes, whose witcheries Have filled my heart with care; Too dear I prize the charming eyes Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

Perhaps I’ve seen a fairer face, Though hers may well surprise; A form perhaps of lovelier grace, But, oh! the eyes, the eyes! The matchless eyes, whose witcheries Have filled my heart with care; I well may prize the matchless eyes Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

What with the polished diamond-stone Can vie beneath the skies? Oh, it is vied and far outshone By Sophy’s beaming eyes. By Sophy’s eyes, whose witcheries Have filled my heart with care; Well may I prize the beaming eyes Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

The sun of June burns furiously, And brooks and meadows dries; But, oh, with more intensity Burn cruel Sophy’s eyes! The wicked eyes, whose witcheries Have filled my heart with care; Too dear I prize the wicked eyes Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.

O, soon beneath their piercing ray, Like some parched plant which dies, Wither shall I, poor youth, away? And all for Sophy’s eyes. But bless the eyes, whose witcheries Have filled my heart with care; Till Death I’ll prize and bless the eyes Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.