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Tis strange, this heart within my breast,
Reason opposing, and her pow’rs,
Cannot one gentle moment rest,
Unlesse it knows, what’s done in yours.
In vain I ask it, of your Eyes,
Which subt’ly, would my fears controul,
For art has taught them, to disguise,
Which Nature made, t’explain the Soul.
In vain, that sound your voice affoards,
Flatters sometimes, my easy mind,
But of too vast extent, are words,
In them, the Jewel truth to find.
Then, lett thy fond enquiry’s cease,
And so my Soul, thy troubles end,
For sure that heart, shall ne’r know peace,
That on another does depend.