Song

WHEN bright Ophelia treads the green
In all the pride of dress and mien,
Averse to freedom, mirth, and play,
The lofty rival of the day,
Methinks to my enchanted eye
The lilies droop, the roses die.

But when, disdaining art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air,
Mild as the opening morn of May,
And as the feather'd warblers gay,
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smiles the pink and rose.

" O lovely maid! propitious hear,
" Nor think thy Damon insincere.
" Pity my wild delusive flame;
" For tho' the flow'rs are still the same,
" To me they languish or improve,
" And plainly tell me that I love."