If lock'd in soft and sweet repose
(The balm which Heaven assigns to woe,)
Thy soul ideal pleasure knows,
And gentle passions calmly glow,
Still, still entranc'd in slumber lie,
Till morn invades the eastern sky.

But if contending passions tear
That bosom form'd for love alone;
If haggard Grief, and wild Despair,
Torment thee with fictitious moan;
O quit the scene of misery,
And wake, dear maid, to love and me.