Oft had I heard fond tales of love,
But dreamt not nymphs would prove unkind;
I met fair Julia in the grove,
And hop'd with Love some sport to find.

Ye roses that adorn her cheek,
Why thus your brightest bloom display?
Why thus a lover's ruin seek?--
Alas! ye bloom but to betray.

I did but gaze, yet was undone;
For soon I own'd his painful smart,
And felt, too late, a smile had won
What ne'er could have been gain'd by art.

So flies the linnet to the snare,
The tempting bait in hopes to gain;
But finds too late, for all his care,
He struggles to be free in vain.