Phil. They doubt not that—they doubt your love for me.
Some say it sleeps; some say that it is dead;
Some that it never lived. Oh, Zeolide,
If love for Philamir is yet unborn,
Why bring it now to light! Where will you find
A fitter nursery for love than this?
If that love lives, but sleeps, why wake it now
And let it revel in these golden groves.
If it is dead, why here’s a paradise
That well might summon it to second life!