To some amusing strain,
The smile that triumphs o'er her brow,
Seems not to heed my pain.
Yet, plaintive sounds—yet, yet delay,
Howe'er my love repine,
Let this gay minute pass away,
The next, perhaps, is mine.
Yes, plaintive sounds, no longer crost,
Your griefs shall soon be o'er;
Her cheek, undimpled now, has lost