Fair the face of orient day,
  Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
  More lovely far her beauty shows.
 
Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay,
  Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still,
  Steal thine accents on mine ear.
 
The flower-enamour'd busy bee
  The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
  To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.
 
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
  Let me, no vagrant insect, rove;
O let me steal one liquid kiss,
  For Oh! my soul is parch'd with love.