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’Tis strange, this heart within my breast,
Reason oposing, and her powrs,
Cannot one gentle moment rest,
Unlesse itt knows what’s done in yours.
In vain, I ask itt of your eyes,
Which subtly wou’d my fears controul,
For art, has taught them to disguise
Which nature made, t’explain the Soul.
In vain, that sound, your voyce affords
Flatters sometimes, my easy mind,
But of too vast extent are words,
In them, the Jewel truth to find.
Then lett my fond enquirys, cease,
And so let all my troubles end,
For sure, that heart shall ne’r know peace,
Which on another’s, does depend.