To daunton me

Alas! when charming Sylvia's gone,

I sigh and think my self undone;

But when the lovely nymph is here,

I'm pleas'd, yet grieve;

and hope, yet fear,

Thoughtless of all but her I rove,

Ah! tell me, is not this call'd love?

Ah me! what pow'r can move me so?

I die with grief when she must go;

But I revive at her return,

I smile, I freeze, I pant, I burn:

Transports so strong, so sweet, so new,

Say, can they be to friendship due?

Ah! no, 'tis love! 'tis now too plain,

I feel, I feel the pleasing pain!

For who e'er saw bright Sylvia's eyes,

But wish'd, and long'd, and was her prize?

Gods! if the truest must be bless'd,

O! let her be by me possess'd.