I will
With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That, let her
On me all day,
I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.
I will not,
I,
Now blubb'ring cry,
It, ah! too late repents
That I did
To love at all—Since love so much contents me.
No, no,
I'll
In fetters free;
While others they sit
Their hands for pain,
I'll
The wounds of love with singing.
With flowers and wine,
And cakes divine,
To strike me I will tempt thee;
Which done, no moreI'll come
Thee and thine altars empty.
