And all the trophies of her eyes,
Our solemn prayers to Heaven we send,
That our firm love might know no end;
Nor time its vigour e'er impair:
Then to the wingéd God we sware,
And grav'd the oath in its smooth rind,
60Which in our hearts we deeper find.
Then to my dear (as if afraid
To try her doubted faith) I said,
'Would in thy soul my form as clear,