A Song.

A SONG.

'TIS strange, this Heart within my breast, Reason opposing, and her Pow'rs, Cannot one gentle Moment rest, Unless it knows what's done in Yours.

In vain I ask it of your Eyes, Which subt'ly wou'd my Fears controul; For Art has taught them to disguise, Which Nature made t' 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 Anothers do's depend.