The Echo, Song XLIII

A ROSE tree in full bearing, Had sweet flowers, fair to see One rose beyond comparing, For beauty, attracted me; Tho' eager once, to win it, When lovely, blooming, fresh and gay, I found a canker in it, And now, throw it far away.

How fine this morning early! The sun shining fair and bright, So late I lov'd you dearly, Tho' lost now, each fond delight, The clouds seem big with showers, The sun beams no more are seen, Farewell, ye fleeting hours, Your falsehood has chang'd the scene,

When fair Aurora blushes, And heaven's serene and clear, The linnets, larks and thrushes, With music, delight the ear; When storms begin to gather, And clouds veil the vaulted skies, They bid adieu to pleasure, In silence, their music dies.

So when you was my lover, I thought you was all divine, No blemish could discover, But now, all your vices shine; I find you are inconstant, You're false and fickle, as the wind, I'll think no more upon you, But banish you from my mind.

As little Cupid played, The sweet blooming flowers, among, A bee, that lay concealed Under th' leaves, his finger stung; Tears down his pretty cheeks ran, He frantic, blow'd the smarting wound, And crying thro' the grove ran, Until he his mother found;

Mamma, I'm sorely wounded, Assist me, or I die with pain, My anguish is unbounded, A bee stung me, on the plain; She smilingly, replying, Said, O my son, how can it be? That by a bee you're dying, What must she feel, who's stung by thee?