Freely I yield me to thy sweet control;
For other joys let folly's fools contend,
Whether to pomp or luxury they tend.
Let sages tell us, what they ne'er believe,
That love must ever give us cause to grieve;
Mine be the bliss C——'s love to prove,
To love her still, and still to have her love.
If without her of countless worlds possessed,
I still should mourn, I still should be unblest.
For her I'd yield whole worlds of richest ore,—