Oh, How the Hand the Lover Ought to Prize

Oh, how the hand the lover ought to prize

’Bove any one peculiar grace!

While he is dying for the eyes

And doting on the lovely face,

The unconsid’ring little knows

How much he to this beauty owes.

That, when the lover absent is,

Informs him of his mistress’ heart;

’Tis that which gives him all his bliss

When dear love-secrets ’twill impart:

That plights the faith the maid bestows,

And that confirms the tim’rous vows.

’Tis that betrays the tenderness

Which the too bashful tongue denies;

’Tis that which does the heart confess,

And spares the language of the eyes;

’Tis that which treasure gives so vast,

Ev’n Iris ’twill to Damon give at last.