IN Celia's arms while bless'd I lay,
My soul in bliss dissolved away:
'Tell me,' the charmer cried, 'how well
'You love your Celia; Strephon, tell.'
Kissing her glowing, burning cheek,
'I'll tell,' I cried — but could not speak.
At length my voice return'd, and she
Again began to question me.
I pulled her to my breast again,
And tried to answer, but in vain:
Short falt'ring accents from me broke,
And my voice fail'd before I spoke.
The charmer, pitying my distress,
Gave me the tenderest caress,
And sighing cried, 'You need not tell;
'Oh! Strephon, Oh! I feel how well.'