A Song
The nymph in vain bestows her pains,
That seeks to thrive where Bacchus reigns;
In vain are charms, or smiles, or frowns,
All images his torrent drowns.
Flames to the head he may impart,
But makes an island of the heart;
So inaccesible and cold,
That to be his is to be old.
That seeks to thrive where Bacchus reigns;
In vain are charms, or smiles, or frowns,
All images his torrent drowns.
Flames to the head he may impart,
But makes an island of the heart;
So inaccesible and cold,
That to be his is to be old.
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