“Ingrate! Who led thee to the wave, At noon where Lesbia loved to lave? Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay? And who, when Caelia shrieked for aid, Bad you with kisses hush the maid? What other was’t than love, oh! false Anacreon, say!

“Then you could call me⁠—‘Gentle boy! My only bliss! my source of joy!’⁠— Then you could prize me dearer than your soul! Could kiss, and dance me on your knees; And swear, not wine itself would please, Had not the lip of love first touched the flowing bowl!

“Must those sweet days return no more? Must I for aye your loss deplore, Banished your heart, and from your favour driven? Ah! no; my fears that smile denies; That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear and all my faults forgiven.