Ye gentle Gales, that softly move,
Go whisper to the Fair I love;
Tell her I languish and adore,
And pity in return implore.
But if she's cold to my request,
Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest —
My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim,
And speak in strongest notes my flame.
Still, if she rests in mute disdain,
And thinks I feel a common pain —
Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly,
And tell the haughty Fair I die.