All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating,
"What oft we've done, we're still repeating."
But how much curst by every lover,
When hope is fled, and passion's over.
Woman that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her,
How throbs the pulse, when first we view,