Hymn To Love

I will confess

With cheerfulness,

Love is a thing so likes me,

That, let her lay

On me all day,

I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.

I will not, I,

Now blubb'ring cry,

It, ah!  too late repents me

That I did fall

To love at all—

Since love so much contents me.

No, no, I'll be

In fetters free;

While others they sit wringing

Their hands for pain,

I'll entertain

The wounds of love with singing.

With flowers and wine,

And cakes divine,

To strike me I will tempt thee;

Which done, no more

I'll come before

Thee and thine altars empty.