Yet still I may not be in love.
His merit was always allow’d,
By ev’ry gay nymph on the plain,
And I sure must be stupid or proud,
Not to join in the praise of the swain.
But when each dear look I admire,
When with raptures I list to his song,
When my heart it beats time to his lyre,
And the minutes without him seem long;
Then I fear, that not friendship alone,