Though ofttimes I’ve pray’d the fair maid to revoke it.
“No—Colin I love”—(thus will Daphne declare)
“Put that in your pipe, if you will, sir, and smoke it.”
Once I thought that she loved me (O! fatal deceit),
For she wore at the dance the gay wreath I had twined her;
She smiled when I swore that I envied each sweet,
And vow’d that in love’s rosy chains I would bind her.
I press’d her soft hand, and a blush dyed her cheek;
“Oh! there’s love,” I exclaim’d, “in that eye’s liquid glancing.”
She spoke, and I think I can still hear her speak—