'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.