But why bite those lips? Why with hit My fidelity question, unfair ? Yes, her red ruby lips did I print, But her name will I never declare. Maid belov'd! without thee, while alone In this cot doom'd existence to bear, Thro' each moment of ence I moan With a grief--ask me 110t to declare. Thus at length behold Hafiz, whose song Has so frequently few'd void of eare, Whirld by Love's tender passion along With a force ask me not to declare. COLİN'S COMPLAINT, A SONG Despairing beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid ; A willow supported his head. To his sigh with a sigh did reply; And the brook, in return to his pain, Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas, silly swain that I was ! Thus sadly complaining he cry'd, When first I beheld that fair face, 'Twere better by far I had dy'd. She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue ; When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great, I listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet? How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a crown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve, To forsake the fine folk of the town? To think that a beauty so gay, So kind and so constant would prove Or go clad like our maidens in gray, Or live in a cottage on love? What though I have skill to complain, Though the Muses my temple have crown'd; What though when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around. Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine. And you, miỹ companions so dear, Who' sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain my fortune to fly, 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'lis mine to be constant and die. If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me lay low in the ground. N To think that a beauty so gay, So kind and so constant would prove; Or go clad like our maidens in gray, Or live in a cottage on love? What though I have skill to complain, Though the Muses my temple have crown'd ; What though when they hear my soft strain; The virgins sit weeping around. Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine. And yoü, miù companions so dear; Who' sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tiş in vain my fortune to fly, 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'l'is mine to be constant and die. If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me lay low in the ground. |