We take for granted, ah, so many things,
Some fond, unwearied heart on us bestows,
Nor blinded see the torturing, hidden throes
When seeming coldness her dear bosom wrings.
Too oft the man in fatuous folly flings
Away the treasure he so little knows,
And flees the all-sufficing, soft repose,
Where every joy with healing music sings.
O Woman's Love, what art can measure thee,
What plummet thy vast ocean depths can sound,
What divination thy circumference bound?
If he who has thee in supreme degree
In thy great service be deficient found,
He should be scourged through all eternity.