When mortals all to rest retire,
 o Moon! Thou hear'st my
 whisp'ring lyre:
 to thee I wake the mpurnful lay;
 for sure thou lookst as if thy ray
 would confort, if it could,
 convey, and happier songs inspire.
 And I will happier be;

 my heart, though late, shall wisdom learn,
 from love's delusions free:
 my siprit shall in dignant burn,
 and I with maiden pride will spurn
 his strange inconstancy.

 Roll on ye hours! And back restore
 the peaceful thoughts I knew before,
 when smil'd the arts, when charm'd the muse,
 when morn for me had beauteous hues,
 and evening could her calm
 diffuse my ardent bosom o'er.
 But Love! Thou fiend of pain!
 I feel the tears
 of anguish start how hard my peace to gain!
 O fiend and tyrant as thou art!
 That wring'st from my unwilling
 heart the sighs that I disdain.