"The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe is me!
Their constancy was mine!
"For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touched my heart,
I triumphed in his pain.
"Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;