Oh, how the hand the lover ought to prize
Bove any one peculiar grace!
While he is dying for the eyes
And doting on the lovely face,
The unconsidring little knows
How much he to this beauty owes.
That, when the lover absent is,
Informs him of his mistress heart;
Tis that which gives him all his bliss
When dear love-secrets twill impart:
That plights the faith the maid bestows,
And that confirms the timrous vows.
Tis that betrays the tenderness
Which the too bashful tongue denies;
Tis that which does the heart confess,
And spares the language of the eyes;
Tis that which treasure gives so vast,
Evn Iris twill to Damon give at last.