And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destin’d prey.
In vain with love our bosoms glow;
Can all our tears, can all our sighs
New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dies,
Require the borrow’d gloss of art?
Speak not of fate—ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,