Boy, let yon[[A]] liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate’er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bow’r so sweet as Moselláy.
Oh! when these fair, perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glance my tender breast invades,