_Ob: 1820, æt. 25._
Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret
That another awakened thy sigh,
Or repine that some traces remain of it yet
In the beam of that eloquent eye.
Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone
Ere it taught me the way to adore,
Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own,
Because it was polished before?
And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won,
It but fits it the better for bliss;
As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun,
Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.