H.

NAY, chide me not that I am jealous, love;

For in my doting fondness I am grown

A very miser of the beauties thrown

Profusely round thee from the gods above:

I ’m even jealous of the pliant glove

Embracing oft thy slight and fairy hand,

And of sly Zephyr, with his whisper bland,

Who steals a-wooing from the budding grove,

And dallies o’er thy cheek with soft caress,

And of the ray that trembles as it glows

Upon thy fresh lips’ loveliness;—

For that dear hand I would with mine enclose,

And lip and cheek I would were mine alone,

And mine the only heart that thou wouldst wish to own.