Hang my lyre upon the willow,
Sigh to winds thy notes forlorn:
Or, along the foamy billow
Float the wrecking tempest's scorn.

Sprightly sounds no more it raises,
Such as Laura's smiles approve;
Laura scorns her poet's praises,
Calls his artless friendship love:

Calls it love, that spurning duty,
Spurning Nature's chastest ties,
Mocks thy tears, dejected beauty,
Sports with fallen Virtue's sighs.

Call it love, no more profaning
Truth with dark Suspicion's wound;
Or, my fair, the term retaining,
Change the sense, preserve the sound.

Yes, 'tis love — that name is given,
Angels, to your purest flames:
Such a love as merits Heaven,
Heaven's divinest image claims.