Love, love.
JUSTINA [more composed]. 'Tis that enamoured nightingale
Who thus gives me the reply:--
To his partner in the vale
Listening on a bough hard by
Warbling thus his tuneful wail.
Cease, sweet nightingale, nor show
By thy softly witching strain
Trilling forth thy bliss and woe,
How a man might feel love's pain,
When a bird can feel his so.
No: it was that wanton vine
That in fond pursuit has sought
The tall tree it doth entwine,
Till the green weight it hath brought
Makes the noble trunk decline.
Green entwining boughs that hold
What you love in your embrace,
Make my fancy not too bold:--
Ah, if boughs thus interlace,
How would clasping arms infold!--
And if not the vine, 'twill be
That bright sunflower which we see
Turning with its tearful eyes
To its sun-god in the skies,
Whatsoe'er his movements be.
Flower thy watch no longer keep,
Drooping leaflets fold in sleep,
For the fond thought reappears,
Ah, if leaves can shed such tears,
What are those that eyes can weep!
Cease then, lyrist of the grove,
Leafy vine, unclasp thy arms,
Fickle flower, no longer move,
And declare, these poisoned charms
That you use, what yields?
CHORUS [within]. Love, love.
JUSTINA. Love! it cannot be. Its chain
Have I ever worn for man?
No, the fond deceit is vain.
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