To Chloë being ill

Long, long is the night,

And heavy comes the morrow,

While my soul's delight

Is on her bed of sorrow.

Can, can I cease,

Can I cease to languish,

While my soul's delight

Is on her couch of anguish?

Can I cease to mourn,

Can I cease to languish,

While my darling fair

Is on her couch of anguish?

Hear me, Pow'rs Divine!

Oh in pity hear me!

Take aught else of mine,

But my Chloris spare me!