Song

'Tis strange, this heart within my breast, Reason opposing and her powers, Cannot one gentle moment rest, Unless it knows what's done in your's.

In vain I ask it of your eyes, Which subtly would my fears control; For art has taught them to disguise, Which nature made to explain the soul.

In vain that sound, your voice affords, Flatters sometimes my easy mind; But of too vast extent are words In them the jewel truth to find. Then let my fond enquiries cease, And so let all my troubles end: For, sure, that heart shall ne'er know peace, Which on another's doth depend.