’Tis thine to dispense—Oh! bestow it on me,
Whose love, faith, and truth are directed to thee.
In strains more harmonious than Orpheus e’er sung,
More soft than the sounds of Cecilia’s sweet tongue,
Ye zephyrs, this truth to my Laura convey,
That my love, faith and honour, can never decay.
The lover, whose heart a fair face can engage,
May by caprice grow fickle, or cool in old age;
But founded in sense, my love, honour and truth,
Shall bloom in old age, as they flourish in youth.