Emillia Embroidering, and Jealous, Elegy II

My partial friends, ye praise the mimic flowers,
Which from my hand, in gay creation, rise;
But, ah! this little talent’s flatter’d powers
No pleasing gleam of self-applause supplies.

Vainly ye descant on the golden light,
Vainly the soft and blended shades ye praise;
Observe my florets swell upon the sight,
And curve, and float from their entwining sprays.

Fatal to me has proved this native sense
Of grace and beauty, that their brilliant glow
Taught my obedient needle to dispense,
And lead their wavy lines in easy flow.

But for that treacherous sense, with calm survey,
These eyes EVANDER’s charming form had met,
Then had my peaceful night, my jocund day,
Escaped delusive joy, and long regret;

This sad distrust, these cruel pangs unfelt,
That shroud the vernal mornings as they shine,
Now that EVANDER’s eyes no longer melt
In tender passion, as they gaze on mine;

Now, that he wastes in idle cares the days,
Who once long ages deem’d each absent hour;
Now, that a rival nymph so often strays,
With air embarrass’d, round EVANDER’s bower.