Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,

  'Twill chase that pensive tear;

'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,

  But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

  Like her delusive beam,

    'Twill steal away thy mind:

  But, truer than love's dream,

    It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;

  These flowers were culled at noon;—

Like woman's love the rose will fade,

  But, ah! not half so soon.

    For though the flower's decayed,

      Its fragrance is not o'er;

    But once when love's betrayed,

      Its sweet life blooms no more.