Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751–1816)

DRY be that tear, my gentlest love,

Be hushed that struggling sigh;

Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove,

More fixed, more true, than I.

Hushed be that sigh, be dry that tear;

Cease, boding doubt; cease, anxious fear—

Dry be that tear.

Ask’st thou how long my love shall stay,

When all that’s new is past?

How long? Ah! Delia, can I say,

How long my life shall last?

Dry be that tear, be hushed that sigh;

At least I’ll love thee till I die—

Hushed be that sigh.

And does that thought affect thee, too,

The thought of Sylvio’s death,

That he, who only breathed for you,

Must yield that faithful breath?

Hushed be that sigh, be dry that tear,

Nor let us lose our heaven here—

Dry be that tear.