Suspecting that the friendship of men to her sex always concealed a
more dangerous passion.
Hang, my lyre, upon the willow,
Sigh to winds thy notes forlorn,
Or along the foaming billow,
Float the wrecking tempest's scorn.
Airs no more thy warbling raises,
Such as Laura deigns approve;
Laura scorns her poet's praises,
Artless friendship calls it love.