Says **** O! where is that brilliancy flown,
Which forbad the intrusion of care?
That spark evanescent so lately that shone,
Now yields to the gloom of despair.

Her eyes they laugh malice while slily she speaks,
And affects to inquire what she knows;
Her heart well can answer the question she seeks,
And the cause whence that sorrow arose.

Let the flash of fierce triumph illumine that eye,
That can spurn at the dying or dead,
But far be from **** the barbarous joy
To exult o'er the wretch she has made.

To boist'rous humour I ne'er make pretence,
For vivacity merely is mine;
And this I employ'd, tho' poor the defence,
'Gainst the magic of glances like thine.

You saw 'twas not humour, nor wit, nor yet whim,
And bade the false lustre expire;
Expos'd to such glances, like paste it grew dim,
And lost all its polish by fire.

Ah! turn then, sweet tempter, those glances away,
Which, blazing most fiercely, consume;
I'll try , since you bid me, I'll try to be gay,
And the ease which I feel not assume.

I will hum you the tune, and repeat you the lay,
And tell you the tale you like best;
And thus like the nightingale perch'd on the spray,
I will sing with a thorn at my breast.