O Fanny, life is on the wing,
And years, like rivers, glide away:
To-morrow may misfortune bring,
Then, gentle girl, enjoy to-day
And while a lingering kiss I sip,
Ah, start not from these ardent arms;
Nor think the printure of my lip
Will rob your own of any charms.
For see, we crush not, though we tread,
The cup and primrose. Fanny smiled.