What time the morn has streaked the skies,
Or evening’s faded radiance dies,
Through painful days consuming slow,
Through lingering nights of amorous woe.
This tongue, thou know’st, has oft extolled
Thy hair in shining ringlets rolled;
Thine eyes with tender passion bright;
Thy swelling breast of purest white;
Thy taper neck of polished grace;
And all the beauties of thy face;