When bright Ophelia treads the green, br In all the pride of dress and mien; br Averse to freedom, mirth and play, br The lofty rival of the day; br Methinks, to my enchanted eye, br The lilies droop, the roses die. br br But when, disdaining art, the fair br Assumes a soft engaging air; br Mild as the opening morn of May, br And as the feather'd warblers gay; br The scene improves where'er she goes, br More sweetly smile the pink and rose. br br O lovely maid! propitious hear, br Nor think thy Damon insincere. br Pity my wild delusive flame; br For though the flowers are still the same, br To me they languish, or improve, br And plainly tell me that I love.