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But why bite those lips? Why with hit

My fidelity question, unfair ? Yes, her red ruby lips did I print,

But her name will I never declare.

Maid belov'd! without thee, while alone

In this cot doom'd existence to bear, Thro' each moment of ence I moan

With a grief--ask me 110t to declare.

Thus at length behold Hafiz, whose song

Has so frequently few'd void of eare, Whirld by Love's tender passion along

With a force ask me not to declare.

COLİN'S COMPLAINT,

A SONG

Despairing beside a clear stream,

A shepherd forsaken was laid ;
And while a false nymph was his theme,

A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sigh with a sigh did reply; And the brook, in return to his pain,

Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas, silly swain that I was !

Thus sadly complaining he cry'd, When first I beheld that fair face,

'Twere better by far I had dy'd. She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue ;

When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great, I listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung,

Was nightingale ever so sweet?

How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a crown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve,

To forsake the fine folk of the town?

To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove Or go clad like our maidens in gray,

Or live in a cottage on love?

What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Muses my temple have crown'd; What though when they hear my soft strain,

The virgins sit weeping around. Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false one inclines to a swain,

Whose music is sweeter than thine.

And you, miỹ companions so dear,

Who' sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should

range, 'Tis in vain my fortune to fly, 'Twas hers to be false and to change,

'lis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found

Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me lay low in the ground.

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sire tous

To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove; Or go clad like our maidens in gray,

Or live in a cottage on love?

What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Muses my temple have crown'd ; What though when they hear my soft strain;

The virgins sit weeping around. Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false one inclines to a swain,

Whose music is sweeter than thine.

And yoü, miù companions so dear;

Who' sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range,

'Tiş in vain my fortune to fly, 'Twas hers to be false and to change,

'l'is mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found

Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me lay low in the ground.

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