chanson.
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"Je n'ose chanter trop tart, ne trop souvent."
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"I fear to sing too seldom or too long—
I cannot tell if silence be the best,
Or if at all to tune my tender song—
For she denies me pity, hope, and rest.
Yet, in my lay, I might some note awake,
To please her ear more than all lays before;
Though thus, she seems a cruel joy to take,
That I should slowly suffer evermore.
"At once I'd cast my idle lute away,
If I were sure no pleasure could be mine;
But love has made my thoughts so much his prey,
I do not dare to love her, nor resign.
Thus I stand trembling and afraid to fly,
Till I have learnt to hate her—lovingly.
"By love and hate's alternate passions torn,
How shall I turn me from my thronging woes?
Ah! if I perish, tortured and forlorn,
But little glory from such triumph flows.
She has no right to keep me her's, in thrall,
Unless she will be mine, my own, my all!
"Well does she know how to delight—inflame,
With soft regards and smiles and words at will,
And none within her magic ever came,
But learnt to hope he was the favour'd still.
She is worth all the conquests she has won:
But I may trust too far—and be undone!
"She keeps me ling'ring thus in endless doubt,
And, as she pleases, holds me in her chain,
Grants she no smiles—I can adore without;
And this she knows, and I reproach in vain!
I am content to wait my chance, even now,
If she will but one ray of hope allow."
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