To Eborina

Mr Porden

How sweet the morning’s vernal flowers
 How sweet at sultry noon the gale
How sweet to trace in evening hours
 That stream that winds thro’ Ebor’s vale.
But sweeter far the grief I feel
 When back those hours that swiftly flew
Return and to my bosom steal
 The joys that late I shared with you.

How oft that stream, ungrateful Maid,
 Has check’d his course, your vows to hear,
How oft the grove, the grot, the glade,
 Have heard you swear those vows sincere.
If in such groves and grots there dwell
 Superior powers as bards have said,
Then Ebor’s every nymph can tell
 That you are false, and I’m betrayed.

And did I think that beauteous face,
 And did I think that form so fine,
Adorn’d with each bewitching grace,
 Ah! did I fondly think them mine.
And did I think those melting eyes,
 Would beam with love for me alone,
And did I think unfeign’d your sighs
 I did, false maid — and I’m undone.

Fool not to know that woman’s love,
 Is fickle as the changeful wind
That sands and restless waters prove
 More stable than a woman’s mind.
Some gaudy Fop’s delusive song,
 Has praised the beauties I adore,
And yielding to his honied tongue,
 You on Lothario think no more.