Village books

This is the song:

I.
Go, happy paper, gently steal,
And underneath her pillow lie;
There, in soft dreams, my love reveal,
That love which I must still conceal,
And, wrapt in awful silence, die.
II.
Should flames be doom'd thy hapless fate,
To atoms thou wouldst quickly turn:
My pains may bear a longer date;
For should I live, and should she hate,
In endless torments I should burn.
III.
Tell fair AURELIA, she has charms,
Might in a hermit stir desire.
T' attain the heav'n that's in her arms,
I'd quit the world's alluring harms,
And to a cell content, retire.
IV.
Of all that pleas'd my ravish'd eye,
Her beauty should supply the place;
Bold Raphael's strokes, and Titian's dye,
Should but in vain presume to vie
With her inimitable face.
V.
No more I'd wish for Phoebus' rays,
To gild the object of my sight;
Much less the taper's fainter blaze:
Her eyes should measure out my days;
And when she slept, it should be night.

About four o'clock.
My master just came up to me, and said, If you should see Mr.


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