YOU tell me that you truly love:
Ah! know you well what love does mean?
Does neither whim nor fancy move
The rapture of your transient dream?

Tell me, when absent do you think
O'er ev'ry look and ev'ry sigh?
Do you in melancholy sink,
And hope and doubt you know not why?

When present, do you die to say
How much you love, yet fear to tell?
Does her breath melt your soul away?
A touch, your nerves with transport swell?

Or do you faint with sweet excess
Of pleasure rising into pain,
When hoping you may e'er possess
The object you aspire to gain?

The charms of every other fair
With coldness could you learn to view?
Fondly unchang'd to her repair,
With transports ever young and new?

Could you, for her, fame, wealth despise?
In poverty and toil feel blest?
Drink sweet delusion from her eyes,
Or smile at ruin on her breast?

And tell me, at her loss or hate,
Would death your only refuge prove?
Ah! if in aught you hesitate,
Coward! you dare not say you love.