SONGS.
71
But, Cupid, if thine aid be vain
The dear reluctant maid to gain;
If ſtill with cold averted eyes
She daſh my hopes, and ſcorn my ſighs;
O! grant ('tis all I aſk of thee)
That I no more may change than ſhe;
But ſtill with duteous zeal love on,
When every gleam of hope is gone.
Leave me then alone to languiſh;
Think not time can heal my anguiſh;
Pity the woes which I endure;
But never, never grant a cure.
Sylvia.
