That illumines the west when a summer-day closes;
Her eyes seem like violets laden with dew,
Her lips will compare with the sweetest of roses.
By Daphne’s decree I am doom’d to despair,
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,