Such Is My Love, To Thee I

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank Here We Will Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness, And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony

She Marking Them Begins A Wailing Note And Sings Extemporally A Woeful Ditty How Love Makes Young Men Thrall And Old Men Dote How Love Is Wise In Folly, Foolish-witty Her Heavy Anthem Still Concludes In Woe, And Still The Choir Of Echoes Answer So.

Self-love, My Liege, Is Not So Vile A Sin, As Self-neglecting.

Love Is Like A Child, That Longs For Everything It Can Come By

So May He Rest, His Faults Lie Gently On Him!