Behold, ye fair! yon melancholy maid,
The tear just bursting from her downcast eye,
Who on the willow rests her pensive head,
“And pores upon the brook that babbles by.”

She once, like you, did laugh the hours away,
Was often merry, and was seldom grave;
Walks were not wanting to deceive the day,
Nor love, I ween, to cheer the gloomy eye.

The flow'rs of beauty blossom'd on her cheek,
Men thought her witty, and she thought so too;
She now and then would think, but oft'ner speak,
And always did as other virgins do.

When, lo! she fell, for passion was her guide,
From seeming pleasure into real shame:—
Sneer not, ye flaunting progeny of pride!
In some black hour your fate may be the same.

Trust not in figure, nor in features trust,
The more your charms, your danger is the more;
Full many a beauteous maid has been unjust,
Tutor'd by vanity's delusive lore.

Weigh well your actions, ponder ev'ry deed;
For future fame and future fortune fear;
And follow not where pow'rful passions lead,
For fell repentance rages in the rear.