But why bite those lips? Why with hint 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 absence I moan With a grief ask me not to declare.

Thus at length behold Hafiz, whose song Has so frequently flow'd void of care, Whirl'd by Love's tender passion along With a force ask me not to declare

COLIN'S COMPLAINT,

A SONG.

Despairing beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,
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, mỹ 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,

Tis 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.

TS COMPLAINT,

the towe

great,

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, my 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

'Tis in vain my fortune to fly,

'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found

range;

Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me lay low in the ground.

N