I Will Confess With Cheerfulness, Love Is A Thing So Likes Me, That, Let Her Lay On Me All Day, I'll Kiss The Hand That Strikes Me. I Will Not, I, Now Blubb'Ring Cry, It, Ah! Too Late Repents Me That I Did Fall To Love At All Since Love So Much Contents Me. No, No, I'll Be In Fetters Free; While Others They Sit Wringing Their Hands For Pain, I'll Entertain The Wounds Of Love With Singing. With Flowers And Wine, And Cakes Divine, To Strike Me I Will Tempt Thee; Which Done, No More I'll Come Before Thee And Thine Altars Empty.