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.