What have I done that my Mary should fly me?
What is my guilt that with scorn she should eye me?
Tell me, ah! Tell the fond swain who adores thee,
And banish the sorrow of him who adores thee.

Is it a fault for thy beauty to languish,
To sigh and to look on a rival with anguish?
Is it a crime at thy presence to tremble?
Think, think of thy charms, then how hard to dissemble.

Thine are the lilies and thine are the roses
Which Flora, when dressed in full beauty discloses;
Sweet is the smile on thy dimpled cheek glowing;
Bright are the locks o'er thy fair forehead flowing.

Yet if a crime for thy hand to be sighing,
Yet if a crime for thy smile to be dying,
Great is my guilt -- not a mortal will doubt it, --
Yet let me plead that no swain is without it.