1776: Yours, Yours, Yours

I live like a nun in a cloister Solitary, celibate I hate it I live like a monk in an abbey Ditto, ditto, I hate it Write to me with sentimental effusion Let me revel in romantic illusion Do you still smell of vanilla and spring air? And is my favorite lover's pillow still firm and fair? What was there, John Still is there, John Come soon as you can to my cloister I've forgotten the feel of your hand Soon, Madam, we shall walk in Cupid's grove together And we'll fondly survey That promised land Till then Till then I am, as I ever was And ever shall be Yours, yours, yours, yours, yours