The youth, once favour’d with such praise, was dead:
“Emma,” the lady cried, “my words attend,
Your syren-smiles have kill’d your humble friend;
The hope you raised can now delude no more,
Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore.”
Faint was the flush of anger and of shame,
That o’er the cheek of conscious beauty came:
“You censure not,” said she, “the sun’s bright rays,
When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze;
And should a stripling look till he were blind,