If love's a sweet passion,

Why does it torment?

If a bitter, oh tell me

Whence comes my content?

Since I suffer with pleasure,

Why should I complain,

Or grieve at my fate,

When I know 'tis in vain?

Yet so pleasing the pain is,

So soft is the dart,

That at once it both wounds me,

And tickles my heart.

I press her hand gently,

Look languishing down.

And by passionate silence

I make my love known.

But oh how I'm blest

When so kind she does prove

By some willing mistake

To discover her love

When in striving to hide

She reveals all her flame

And our eyes tell each other

What neither dares name.