I’m tired of visits, modes, and forms,
And flatt’ries paid to fellow worms;
Their conversation cloys.
Their vain amours and empty stuff;
But I can ne’er enjoy enough
Of thy best company, my Lord,
Thou life of all my joys.
When he begins to tell his love,
Thro’ ev’ry vein my passions move,
The captives of his tongue;
In midnight shades, on frosty ground,
I could attend the pleasing sound;
Nor should I feel December cold,
Nor think the seasons long.
Fly from my thoughts, all human things
And sporting swains, and fighting kings,
And tales of wanton love;
My soul disdains that little snare,
The tangles of Amira’s hair;
Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands,
Nor can my heart remove.
