SONG.

1 To fix her!—'twere a task as vain To count the April drops of rain, To sow in Afric's barren soil, Or tempests hold within a toil.

2 I know it, friend, she's light as air, False as the fowler's artful snare, Inconstant as the passing wind, As winter's dreary frost unkind.

3 She's such a miser, too, in love, Its joys she'll neither share nor prove, Though hundreds of gallants await From her victorious eyes their fate.

4 Blushing at such inglorious reign, I sometimes strive to break her chain, My reason summon to my aid, Resolved no more to be betray'd.

5 Ah! friend, 'tis but a short-lived trance, Dispell'd by one enchanting glance; She need but look, and, I confess, Those looks completely curse or bless.

6 So soft, so elegant, so fair, Sure something more than human's there; I must submit, for strife is vain, 'Twas Destiny that forged the chain.