37.
(The head speaks.)
Ah, were I but the footstool e’en
On which my loved one’s foot doth rest,
I ne’er to grumble should be seen,
However hard I might be press’d.
(The heart speaks.)
Ah, were I but the cushion soft
Wherein her pins she’s wont to stick,
And ’twere her will to prick me oft,
I should rejoice at every prick.
(The song speaks.)
Ah, were I but the paper dear
Wherewith she’s wont her hair to curl,
I’d gently whisper in her ear
The thoughts that in me live and whirl.