The Minute’s past appointed by my Fair,
The Minute’s fled
And leaves me dead
With Anguish and Despair.

My flatter’d Hopes their Flight did make
With the appointed Hour;
None can the Minute’s past o’retake,
And nought my Hopes restore.

Cease your Plaints, and make no Moan,
Thou sad repining Swain;
Although the fleeting Hour be gone,
The Place doe’s still remain.

The Place remains, and she may make
Amends for all your Pain;
Her Presence can past Time o’ertake,
Her Love your Hopes regain.