To love and please was all my thought;
But what delusion it has brought!
I still love on, just as before,
But then I'm lov'd in turn no more."
"I'm not so badly off as you,"
The linnet said; "for though 'tis true
I'm growing old, with loss of voice,
Yet still in music I rejoice,
And when with her wild magic trills
The nightingale the forest fills,
Beguiling all the weary night,
Her sweet song fills me with delight."
Though beauty is a gift divine,
Yet its possession may not bless;
Its charms with merit must combine
To prove a source of happiness:
It fades away,
While talents stay
And please e'en when our own decay.