I ne'er could any lustre see

I ne'er could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me:
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip.
But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose untouch'd by art?
I will own their colour true.
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I e'en be certain then,
Till it grateful press again.
Must I with attentive eye.
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so — when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.