Ah! chide me not if yet once more
I seek that love long sought in vain;
Nor blame me if, while I adore,
My vows are answered with disdain.

Yes, I confess 'tis poor, 'tis weak
To droop, to sit with folded arms,
To bear a fever in my cheek,
And sorrow for an ingrate's charms.

Yet let me still my cares retain,
Still droop, with folded arms still sigh;
Nor mock me that I still remain
The willing captive of her eye.

For Love, with all his keenest smart
Divine enchantment mingles still;
And, while he fires the conquered heart,
He charms with many a pleasing thrill.

And tortured thus, thus doomed to mourn,
I still must feed this cherished grief,
And could my peace once more return,
My heart would scorn the poor relief.

Then chide me not, if yet once more
I seek that love long sought in vain;
Nor blame me if, while I adore,
My vows are answered with disdain.