SING no more in mournful tonesOf the loneliness of night;For 'tis made, ye beauteous ones,For all social pleasures bright.
As of old to man a wifeAs his better half was given, So the night is half our life,And the fairest under heaven.
How can ye enjoy the day,Which obstructs our rapture's tide?
Let it waste itself away;
Worthless 'tis for aught beside.
But when in the darkling hoursFrom the lamp soft rays are glowing, And from mouth to mouth sweet showers,Now of jest, now love, are flowing,--When the nimble, wanton boy,Who so wildly spends his days, Oft amid light sports with joyO'er some trifling gift delays,?
When the nightingale is singingStrains the lover holds so dear, Though like sighs and wailings ringingIn the mournful captive's ear,--With what heart-emotion blestDo ye hearken to the bell, Wont of safety and of restWith twelve solemn strokes to tell!
Therefore in each heavy hour,Let this precept fill your heart:
O'er each day will sorrow loud,Rapture ev'ry night impart.
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