The Question

IN Celia's arms while bless'd I lay, My soul in bliss dissolved away: 'Tell me,' the charmer cried, 'how well 'You love your Celia; Strephon, tell.' Kissing her glowing, burning cheek, 'I'll tell,' I cried — but could not speak. At length my voice return'd, and she Again began to question me. I pulled her to my breast again, And tried to answer, but in vain: Short falt'ring accents from me broke, And my voice fail'd before I spoke. The charmer, pitying my distress, Gave me the tenderest caress, And sighing cried, 'You need not tell; 'Oh! Strephon, Oh! I feel how well.'