To the mistress of my soul.

The measured time is run !
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So make his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Jan hie ?
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy !

We part-but, by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes !
No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray ?