With all the baby playfulness of love.
Here the false maid with many an artful tear,
Made me each rising thought of doubt discover;
And vowed, and wept, till hope had ceased to fear,
Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover.
One evening, on the river’s pleasant strand,
The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,
And with her finger traced upon the sand
Death for Diana—not inconstancy.
And Love beheld us from his secret stand,