Lady! It cannot be, but that thine eyes br Must be my sun, such radiance they display br And strike me ev'n as Phoebus him, whose way br Through torrid Libya's sandy desert lies. br Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise br Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they, br New as to me they are, I cannot say, br But deem them, in the Lover's language--sighs. br Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals, br Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend br To soften thine, they coldness soon congeals. br While others to my tearful eyes ascend, br Whence my sad nights in show'rs are ever drown'd, br 'Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.