Love's eye should but answer the beam that invites it,
The glance that tells secrets true heart never won,
The delicate mind veils the hope that requites it,
Lest it die, like the fire when exposed to the sun.

Dear woman's the exquisite magnet of nature,
And love is the heart-thrilling homage we pay;
But beauty has not a more delicate feature,
Than the caution that Love should, if grateful display.

That name to the heart which sweet transport discloses
Too sacred should be for a toast or a tale;
And the breathings of Love, like the perfumes of roses,
Are exquisite death when surcharging the gale.