My bosom's on fire!
It throbs with desire,
Say whither ye gods shall I fly?
Love presses my stay;
But should I obey,
To my passions a victim I die.
Dear youth my fond heart you have won,
Tis a truth, that it cannot deny;
Love's fetters have made us but one,
Then tell me,—ah! why didst thou fly?
My hand shall thy honour repay,
As witness this amorous sigh!
So believe me when hither you stray,
You need not,——
Nar.—Here I plight a maiden's vow!—
Byr.—By thy beauteous self I swear!—
Nar. Thou shalt be my guardian now!
Byr. Thou shalt be my only care!
Here we plight, &c.—