Ask not, whence springs my ceaseless sadness,
But let me still the secret keep:
Ask not, why thus in restless
Pass the long hours once given to sleep:
And strive not thus my looks to read:….
For 't is by certain fate decreed,
The cause that bids me rove forlorn,
If known, would only move thy scorn,
And make with anger's lightnings
Those now soft-smiling eyes of thine.
But know, when I no more behold thee,
And to distant scenes remove;
Should e'er a mournful tale be told thee,
Of a youth who died for love,
Who, though unknown to rank and fame,
Dared to admire a high-born dame;
But, still averse to wound her pride,
Sad silence kept, and pined, and died:….
My likeness in that victim see,
And pitying him thou'lt pity me.
