Aminta, fear not to confess
The charming Secret of thy Tenderness:
That which a Lover can’t conceal,
That which, to me, thou shouldst reveal;
And is but what thy lovely Eyes express.
Come, whisper to my panting Heart,
That heaves and meets thy Voice half-way;
That guesses what thou wouldst impart,
And languishes for what thou hast to say.
Confirm my trembling Doubt, and make me know,
Whence all these Blessings, and these Sighings flow.
Why dost thou scruple to unfold
A Mystery that does my Life concern?
If thou ne’er speakst, it will be told;
For Lovers all things can discern.
From every Look, from every bashful Grace,
That still succeed each other in thy Face,
I shall the dear transporting Secret learn:
But ’tis a Pleasure not to be exprest,
To hear it by the Voice confest,
When soft Sighs breath it on my panting Breast.
All calm and silent is the Grove,
Whose shading Boughs resist the Day;
Here thou mayst blush, and talk of Love,
While only Winds, unheeding, stay,
That will not bear the Sound away:
While I with solemn awful Joy,
All my attentive Faculties employ;
List’ning to every valu’d Word;
And in my Soul the secret Treasure hoard:
There like some Mystery Divine,
The wond’rous Knowledge I’ll enshrine.
Love can his Joys no longer call his own,
Than the dear Secret’s kept unknown.
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