The poem
THINE am I, my faithful Fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy; Ev’ry pulse along my veins, Ev’ry roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish; Tho’ despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish.
Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure; Turn away thine eyes of love, Lest I die with pleasure! What is life when wanting Love? Night without a morning: Love’s the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning.