YE gentle gales, that careless blow
Regardless of a lover's sighs;
Ye streams, unheeding, as ye flow,
The wretch who on your margin dies:
Far from these banks I fly to prove
If absence is a cure for love.
Yet say, my heart, can distant plains,
Tho' e'er so fair the flowers they boast,
Can clearer streams assuage thy pains,
And give thee back thy quiet lost?
Ah no; and thou, alas! wilt prove
That absence is no cure for love.