78
SONGS.
Why ſhould'ſt them waſte ſuch precious ſhowers,
That fall like dew on wither'd flowers,
But dying paſſion ne'er reſtor'd?
In beauty's empire is no mean,
And woman, either ſlave or queen,
Is quickly ſcorn'd when not ador'd.
Thoſe liquid pearls from either eye,
Which might an eaſtern empire buy,
Unvalued here and fruitleſs fall;
No art the ſeaſon can renew
When love was young, and Damon true;
No tears a wandering heart recall.
Ceaſe, ceaſe to grieve, thy tears are vain,
Should thoſe fair orbs in drops of rain
Vie with a weeping ſouthern ſky:
