Then ask me not， When I return？

    The straying fool ‘twill plainly kill

    To wish all day， all night to mourn.

    Dear， from thine arms then let me fly，

    That my fantastic mind may prove

    The torments² it deserves to try，

    That tears my fix‘d heart from my love.

    When， wearied with a world of woe³，

    To thy safe bosom⁴ I retire，

    Where love， and peace， and truth does flow，

    May I contented⁵ there expire！

    Lest， once more wandering from that heaven，

    I fall on some base heart unblest；

    Faithless to thee， false， unforgiven—

    And lose my everlasting⁶ rest.