Behold, my Amanda, yon prodigal rose,
Flinging forth all its sweets to each zephyr that blows,
While each breeze steals some odour or soft tint away,
And next sun may destroy what has pleas'd us to--day;
Of beauty so lavish, the too selfish eye
Leaves the flow'ret, tho' blooming, to droop and to die.

Not so that sweet bud, where fond nature bestows
Each promise of fragrance that flaunts in the rose;
With a blush seems to think she can veil every charm,
And artlessly deems not those blushes can harm;
While, with delicate prudence, it steals on the sight,
And comes forth as if frighten'd of giving delight!