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From "Eight Glees compos'd by W.B.Earle, Esqr." London, c.1780.
Earle was an aristocrat and philanthropist who lived much of his life in the Close, Salisbury. He was a keen amateur musician who wrote several well-crafted glees.
Earle was an aristocrat and philanthropist who lived much of his life in the Close, Salisbury. He was a keen amateur musician who wrote several well-crafted glees.
Lyrics: Peter Pindar
(John Wolcot)
O thou, whose love-inspiring air
Delights, yet gives a thousand woes;
My day declines in dark despair
And night hath lost her sweet repose.
Yet who, alas, like me was blest
To others, e'er thy charms were known;
When Fancy told my raptured breast
That Cynthia smiled on me alone.
Nymph of my soul, forgive my sighs;
Forgive the jealous fires I feel;
Nor to blame the trembling wretch, who dies
When others to thy beauties kneel.
Lo, theirs is every winning art,
And Fortune's gifts unknown to me!
I only boast a simple heart,
In love with innocence and thee.
O thou, whose love-inspiring air
Delights, yet gives a thousand woes;
My day declines in dark despair
And night hath lost her sweet repose.
Yet who, alas, like me was blest
To others, e'er thy charms were known;
When Fancy told my raptured breast
That Cynthia smiled on me alone.
Nymph of my soul, forgive my sighs;
Forgive the jealous fires I feel;
Nor to blame the trembling wretch, who dies
When others to thy beauties kneel.
Lo, theirs is every winning art,
And Fortune's gifts unknown to me!
I only boast a simple heart,
In love with innocence and thee.