Do Not Think I'll Waste My Bloom

No—do not think I'll waste my bloom,
In pining love for thee,
Tho' frowns from thee may be my doom,
Another kind may be,
O! trust me, willow wreaths proud maid,
By me shall ne'er be worn;
I'll only love where love's repaid,
And scorn will give for scorn.

Whene'er retir'd from day's fierce beams,
I sleep green bowers beneath;
If Love appears to gild my dreams,
He wears a myrtle wreath—
His lip is red, his cheek is round,
And bright his laughing eyes—
Then votaries pale, and willow crown'd,
The God would sure despise—

And since he blooms, and dimples wears,
Who would not look like him?
So ne'er with hopeless passion's tears,
Shall my young eyes be dim—
Then though I own, thou'rt wond'rous fair
Others as fair may be,
And since I, of thy smiles despair,
I'll frown, proud Maid, on thee.