An Hymn To Love.

    I will confess
    With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
    That let her lay
    On me all day,
I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.

    I will not, I,
    Now blubb'ring, cry,
It, ah! too late repents me,
    That I did fall
    To love at all,
Since love so much contents me.

    No, no, I'll be
    In fetters free:
While others they sit wringing
    Their hands for pain,
    I'll entertain
The wounds of love with singing.

    With flowers and wine,
    And cakes divine,
To strike me I will tempt thee:
    Which done; no more
    I'll come before
Thee and thine altars empty.