Now the star of day is high,

Fly, my girls, in pity fly.

Bring me wine in brimming urns

Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!

Sunned by the meridian fire,

Panting, languid I expire,

Give me all those humid flowers,

Drop them o'er my brow in showers.

Scarce a breathing chaplet now

Lives upon my feverish brow;

Every dewy rose I wear

Sheds its tears, and withers there.[1]

But to you, my burning heart,

What can now relief impart?

Can brimming bowl, or floweret's dew,

Cool the flame that scorches you?

[1] In the poem of Mr. Sheridan's, "Uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of stone," there is an idea very singularly coincident with this of Angerianus:—

  And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve

  Some lingering drops of the night-fallen dew:

  Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they'll serve

  As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.