She never thinks of Me

The morning dew that wets the rose, Its blooming tints more lovely shews; So on my Mary's face appears The pearly lustre of her tears, When others' woes she weeps to see; But ah! she never thinks of me!

When round the youths in transports gaze, And Love forbids the pow'r to praise, While she with artless mein beguiles, And sweetly wounds with fatal smiles, Her triumph still I'm fond to see, Although she never thinks of me.

Then go, fair hope, forever go; Here will I nourish dearest woe; For sorrow's self can sweets impart, Sweet ev'ry pang that rends the heart; And sweet to die 'twill surely be, For her who never thinks of me.