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For works with similar titles, see Song and Song (Finch).

Song


'Tis strange, this heart within my breast,
Reason opposing and her powers,
Cannot one gentle moment rest,
Unless it knows what's done in your's.

In vain I ask it of your eyes,
Which subtly would my fears control;
For art has taught them to disguise,
Which nature made to explain the soul.

In vain that sound, your voice affords,
Flatters sometimes my easy mind;10
But of too vast extent are words
In them the jewel truth to find.

Then let my fond enquiries cease,
And so let all my troubles end:
For, sure, that heart shall ne'er know peace,
Which on another's doth depend.