MY Lesbia, let us love, and let's despise
The idle whimsies of the grave and wise;
That sun which sets to night, the morrow morn
Shall full as glorious and as bright return;
But we, if death once snatch us from the light,
Are left for ever in eternal night.
My dearest Lesbia, let us then improve
Our little time, and give it all to love.
Give me, then, charming soul, whom I adore,
A thousand kisses, give a thousand more;
Nay, give another thousand, and complete
My joys; now give another thousand yet,
Give yet as many as you gave before,
Now give, my dear, till we can count no more;
That those who do envy my happiness,
May never know how great, how vast it is,
And all their malice still may be
Short of the mighty joy I find in thee.