And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!
O, Love! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why
With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers
And place them on their breast—but place to die—
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
In her firs passion woman loves her lover,
In all the others all she loves is love,
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over,