Who scent the perfume of her hair.
The honey-dew thy charm might borrow
Thy lip alone to me is sweet;
When thou art absent, faint with sorrow
I hide me in some lone retreat.
Why talk to me of power or fame?
What are those idle toys to me?
Why ask the praises of my name,
My joy, my triumph is in thee.
How blest am I! around me swelling