The poem
I will confess With cheerfulness, Love is a thing so likes me, That, let her lay On me all day, I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.
I will not, I, Now blubb'ring cry, It, ah! too late repents me That I did fall To love at all-- Since love so much contents me.
No, no, I'll be In fetters free; While others they sit wringing Their hands for pain, I'll entertain The wounds of love with singing.
With flowers and wine, And cakes divine, To strike me I will tempt thee; Which done, no more I'll come before Thee and thine altars empty.