Yet what bold wretch complains no more are giv’n,
Or doubts the blessing of each friendly ray?
One tim’rous kiss, which multitudes might bode,
At once thy sun and guiding star had prov’d,
If, while thy lips beneath its pressure glow’d,
And thy tongue flatter’d—thou has truly lov’d.
The flame which burns upon the virgin’s cheek,
The rising sigh, half utter’d, half supprest,
To him who fondly loves, will more than speak
What wav’ring thoughts divide th’ impassion’d breast.