Then the rifled beauty scorning,
How his angry throat he swells!
See his bill the blossoms rending;
Round their leaves in wrath he throws;
Then, once more his wings extending,
Flies to woo the opening rose.
(e Mark, my Zoe,” said her mother,
(t Mark that bough, so lovely late!
Thou in bloom art such another—
Such, perhaps, may be thy fate.