Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire,
Prints on your lip the burning kiss;
Why should he not your charms admire,
And dip his beam each morn in bliss?
Were't mine to guide o'er paths of light
The beam-haired coursers of the sky,
I'd stay their course the livelong night
To gaze upon thy sleeping eye.
Then let the dotard fondly spring,
Each rising day, to snatch the prize;
'Twill add new vigour to his wing,
And speed his journey through the skies.