A SONG. 

'TIS strange, this Heart within my breast,
 Reason opposing, and her Pow'rs,
 Cannot one gentle Moment rest,
 Unless it knows what's done in Yours. 

In vain I ask it of your Eyes,
 Which subt'ly wou'd my Fears controul;
 For Art has taught them to disguise,
 Which Nature made t' explain the Soul. 

In vain that Sound, your Voice affords,
 Flatters sometimes my easy Mind;
 But of too vast Extent are Words
 In them the Jewel Truth to find. 

Then let my fond Enquiries cease,
 And so let all my Troubles end:
 For, sure, that Heart shall ne'er know Peace,
 Which on Anothers do's depend.