AH! wherefore, cruel Cupid, didst thou bind,
With such a painful wreath, my bleeding brows?
Why give me only thorns? for ah! no rose,
No fadeless roses in my wreath I find.

When blinded by thy mother's guileful charms,
Thou cam'st with Hope and Rapture in thy train,
While close behind trod Woe and ambush'd Pain,
Lurking beneath false Pleasure's tempting arms.

Thy garland then with lively green was drest,
And roses, which thou said'st would ne'er decay;
And ah! we doubt not what our wishes say,
Till sad experience harrows up the breast,

Too soon, alas! that painful lot I found;
For, withering in their bloom, the roses died,
Shew'd the sharp thorns which they before did hide,
And time could never heal their treach'rous wound.

One only rose remain'd, and still look'd fair,
Expiring Hope lay panting in its breast,
I had no food to cheer the drooping guest,
Then, like the rest, it died, and left Despair.