Why should I pine, lament, and die,
For one kind Glance of Flora's Eye;
Or sue to her who slights my Pains,
Contemns my Vows, my Love disdains?
While such a beauteous Throng appear,
More kind than she,--tho' none so fair.

More soft she seems than falling Snow;
Or silver Streams that gently flow,
When those bewitching Eyes I view,
They look as they could pity too;
But when to her I make my Moan,
She's harder than the hardest Stone,

No longer will I waste my Time,
And spend in vain my youthful Prime,
To court a Maid, whose chiefest Joy
Is how to torture and destroy:
I won't be any longer blind,
For none are charming but the kind.

But, stay:--Behold the blooming Fair!
Her graceful Shape! her lovely Air!
All my Resolves are flown away,
Like Ghosts at the approaching Day;
And as the Sun the Flow'r revives,
My Passion in her Presence thrives.

'Tis vain elsewhere to seek Redress,
For She, and only She, can bless:
Ev'n while I to forget her try,
For her, and her alone, I die:
May Heav'n, that made her fair, dispose
Her Breast to cure the Lover's Woes!