The HAWTHORN BOWER

Palemon, in the hawthorn bower, With fond impatience lay; He counted every anxious hour That stretch'd the tedious day.

The rosy dawn, Pastora nam'd, And vow'd that she'd be kind; But ah! the setting sun proclaim'd That woman's vows are—wind.

The fickle sex, the boy defy'd; And swore, in terms prophane, That Beauty in her brightest pride Might sue to him in vain.

When Delia from the neighb'ring glade Appear'd in all her charms, Each angry vow Palemon made Was lost in Delia's arms.

The lovers had not long reclin'd Before Pastora came: Inconstancy, she cry'd, I find In every heart's the same;

For young Alexis sigh'd and prest, With such bewitching power, I quite forgot the wishing guest That waited in the bower.