As useless weights that ne’er could fly;
Their humming tops would soundless spin,
Unless I breath’d a spell within.
The modest maid, without my power,
Would wither like her kindred flower.
Unless my cup of sweets she sips,
Where are the rubies of her lips?
Unless my glowing rouge she seeks,
Where are the roses of her cheeks?
What art again can strew her tresses