To Emma

1 O come, dearest Emma! the rose is full blown, And the riches of Flora are lavishly strown; The air is all softness, and chrystal the streams, And the west is resplendently cloathed in beams. 2 We will hasten, my fair, to the opening glades, The quaintly carv’d seats, and the freshening shades; Where the fairies are chaunting their evening hymns, And in the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims. 3 And when thou art weary, I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses, and flowers, to pillow thy head; There, beauteous Emma, I’ll sit at thy feet, While my story of love I enraptur’d repeat. 4 So fondly I’ll breathe, and so softly I’ll sigh, Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is nigh; Ah! no–as I breathe it, I press thy fair knee, And then, thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me. 5 Then why, lovely girl, should we lose all these blisses? That mortal’s a fool who such happiness misses; So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand, With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.