Classic Poem

Whilst on thy dear bosom lying,
Cælia, who can speak my bliss?
Who the raptures I'm enjoying,
When thy balmy lips I kiss?
Every look with love inspires me,
Every touch my bosom warms,
Every melting murmur fires me,
Every joy is in thy arms.

Those dear eyes, how soft they languish!
Feel my heart with rapture beat!
Pleasure turns almost to anguish,
When the transport is so sweet.
Look not so divinely on me,
Cælia, I shall die with bliss;
Yet, yet turn those eyes upon me,
Who'd not die a death like this?