Fly not yet 'tis just the hour When pleasure like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made 'Tis then their soft beguiling glow Will set the tides and wine aflow For maids who love the moon Joy so seldom weaves like this tonight But oh 'tis pain to break its links so soon Oh stay oh stay Fly not yet 'tis just the hour When pleasure's like the midnight flower Though icy cold by day we ran Yet still like souls of mirth we began To burn when night was near