Tho’ from thy bank of velvet torn,
Hang not, fair flower, thy drooping crest;
On Delia’s bosom shalt thou find
A softer sweeter bed of rest.
Tho’ from mild Zephyr’s kiss no more
Ambrosial balms thou shalt inhale,
Her gentle breath, whene’er she sighs,
Shall fan thee with a purer gale.
But thou be grateful for that bliss
For which in vain a thousand burn,
And, as thou stealest sweets from her,
Give back thy choicest in return.
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