I d clasp it round so close and tight. I scarce should be unclasp d at night. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age.
Many suns arise and set.
Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet.