I could never Lustre see
In eyes that wou'd not look on me.
I ne'er saw Nectar on a lip
But where my own did hope to sip.

Has the One who seeks my heart
Cheeks of Rose untouch'd by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is his hand so soft and pure:
I must press it to be sure:
Nor can I be certain then;
Till it, grateful, press again.

Must I with attentive Eye
Watch his heaving bosom sigh.
I will do so when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me,
That heaving bosom sigh for me.