To such a height no mortal can express.
My soul, distracted, still is fix’d on you;
Was ever heart so wretched and so true!
Oh! say, shall selfish love my bosom fire?
Shall you reluctant meet my fond desire?
If that dear heart has vow’d eternal truth,
To some blest swain, some more engaging youth;
Forgive the thought, dear angel of my breast,
I must be wretched; O! may you be blest.
Yes, may the youth to whom you prove more kind,