SINCE to hope for true love is but folly,
And woman's the plaything of man,
My soul sinks in deep melancholy,
Corroding my life's little span.

Oh! I wish my sad eyes could discover
A being of nature refin'd,
What rapture to prove him a lover,
A lover of sensitive mind!

But such, in this world, to my sorrow,
I never can hope to attain,
For this day shall pass on and the morrow,
And my wishes will still be in vain.

For the fancy of man ever turning,
Affection he well can withhold;
And his Passions, though ardently burning,
Leave his Heart unaffected and cold.

Then in solitude still let me languish,
Contempt brace the nerves of my mind,
Indiff'rence preserve me from anguish,
And despair to the wind be consign'd.