O, Then, What Graces In My Love

For Thou Hast Given Me In This Beauteous Face A World Of Earthly Blessings To My Soul, If Sympathy Of Love Unite Our Thoughts.

Fondling,' She Saith, 'since I Have Hemm'd Thee Here Within The Circuit Of This Ivory Pale, I'll Be A Park, And Thou Shalt Be My Deer; Feed Where Thou Wilt, On Mountain Or In Dale: Graze On My Lips, And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

Yet This My Comfort: When Your Words Are Done, My Woes End Likewise With The Evening Sun.

People’s Good Deeds We Write In Water. The Evil Deeds Are Etched In Brass.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.