Пёрселл Генри - If music be the food of love, Z 379 - текст песни (слова), перевод

If Musick be the food of Love,
 Sing on till I am fill'd with joy;
 for then my listning Soul you move,
 to pleasures that can never, cloy;
 your Eyes, your Mean, your tongue declare,
 that you are Musick ev'rywhere.
 
  Pleasures invade both Eye and Ear,
 so fierce the transports are, they wound,
 and all my Senses feasted are;
 tho' yet the Treat is only sound,
 sure I must perish by your Charms,
 unless you save me in your Armes.