If love's a sweet passion why does it torment? If a bitter, oh tell me, whence comes my content? Since I suffer with pleasure, why should I complain, or grieve at my fate, when I know it's in vain? Yet so pleasing the pain is so soft as the dart, That at once it both wounds me and tickles my heart I press her hand gently, look languishing down, and by passionate silence I make my love known. But oh! How I'm blest when so kind she does prove, by some willing mistake to discover her love. When in striving to hide, she reveals her flame, and in our eyes tell each other what neither dares name.