When on the lip the sigh delays,
As if ’twould linger there for ever;
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
Yet still look down and venture never;
When, tho’ with fairest nymphs we rove,
There’s one we dream of more than any—
If all this is not real love,
’Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!
To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we’ve got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute and listen to their beating:
To see but one bright object move,
The only moon, where stars are many—
If all this is not downright love,
I prithee say what is, my Fanny!
When Hope foretells the brightest, best,
Tho’ Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,
Tho’ Prudence to the eastward beckons;
When all turns round, below, above,
And our own heads the most of any—
If this is not stark, staring love,
Then you and I are sages, Fanny.