With down--cast Eyes, and folded Arms,
Young Myrtle saunter'd out one Day,
Reflecting on Florinda's Charms,
The Fair, the blooming, and the gay;
Deeply he sigh'd, his Bosom all a--flame,
And on the Dust he flourish'd out her Name.

Next Morn, abroad he walk'd again,
Much alter'd since the Day before:
A good Night's Rest had cur'd his Pain,
Nor was Florinda thought of more.
But giddy Chance the fickle Youth had brought
Close by that Spot where he her Name had wrote.

The Place recalls to mind his Flame,
When all in Love he wander'd there:
'Twas here, He cries, I left the Name
Of Yesterday's commanding Fair.
Pensive a--while he stood, then look'd to find
What beauteous Image had possess'd his Mind.

But vain, alas! his Searches prove,
The Rain had fall'n, the Wind had blown,
And sympathizing with his Love,
Away was every Letter flown:
Nor could his faithless Memory declare
Whose Name he Yesterday had flourish'd there.