If it is true, Chloris, that you love me
(And I hear that you love me well),
I do not believe even kings themselves
Could be happier than I am.

What good is their power and sovereignty?
What good their riches and honors?
I place all my happiness
In having won your heart.

Let death come take me if it must:
I care nothing for it—
Since my soul is immortal
In the moment I behold you.

Reynaldo Hahn’s A Chloris is a quiet illusion: a Romantic love song dressed in Baroque clothing. Built over a steady, Bach-like bass line, the piece unfolds with poised restraint, letting the voice drift in long, unbroken phrases rather than pushing for overt drama. Setting a poem by Théophile de Viau, Hahn offers a simple but disarming claim—if Chloris loves him, no king could be richer, no power greater, and even death loses its sting. The result is intimate rather than grand: a confession spoken softly, where control deepens feeling instead of diminishing it.