Fly not thus my brow of snow,

Lovely wanton! fly not so.

Though the wane of age is mine,

Though youth's brilliant flush be thine,

Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee,

Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!

See, in yonder flowery braid,

Culled for thee, my blushing maid,[1]

How the rose, of orient glow,

Mingles with the lily's snow;

Mark, how sweet their tints agree,

Just, my girl, like thee and me!

[1] In the same manner that Anacreon pleads for the whiteness of his locks, from the beauty of the color in garlands, a shepherd, in Theocritus, endeavors to recommend his black hair.