LISTEN, fair maid, my song shall tell
How Love may still be known full well,
His looks the traitor prove:
Dost thou not see that absent smile,
That fiery glance replete with guile?
Oh! doubt not then—'tis Love.
When varying still the sly disguise,
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries,
Or with complaint would move;
To day is bold, to-morrow shy,
Changing each hour, he knows not why,
Oh! doubt not then—'tis Love.
There's magic in his every wile,
His lips, well practised to beguile,
Breathe roses when they move;
See, now with sudden rage he burns,
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns;
Oh! doubt not then—'tis Love.
He comes, without the bow and dart,
That spare not e'en the purest heart;
His looks the traitor prove;
That glance is fire, that mien is guile,
Deceit is lurking in that smile,
Oh! trust him not—'tis Love!