Dear, that I with thee might live

Dear, that I with thee might live,
From human trace removed!
Where jealous care might neither grieve,
Yet each dote on their loved.
While fond fear may colour find, love's seldom pleased;
But much like a sick man's rest, it's soon diseased.

Why should our minds not mingle so,
When love and faith is plighted,
That either might the other's know,
Alike in all delighted?
Why should frailty breed suspect, when hearts are fixed?
Must all human joys of force with grief be mixed?

How oft have we ev'n smiled in tears,
Our fond mistrust repenting?
As snow when heavenly fire appears,
So melts love's hate relenting.
Vexed kindness soon falls off and soon returneth:
Such a flame the more you quench the more it burneth.