Behold, he wakes, and here with Transport flies;
What streaming Glories sparkle from his Eyes:
Oh, turn them from me, hide their beauteous Beams;
The Sun with less refulgent Brightness gleams:
Do not such sweet, such magick Rays dispence,
Like pow'rful Sweets they overcome my Sense;
Oh, set me, as a Seal upon thy Heart,
Mark'd for my own, I claim the smallest Part;
Shou'dst Thou (but sure the wounding Thought is vain)
For any other lovely Maid complain;
Take from me, Heav'n, the fleeting Breath you gave,
For Love's as strong as Death, and pow'rful as the Grave.