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Yet, when your strange excuses o'er,
You sit and muse alone,
And seem to look as if you wish'd
Again to hear my tone.
I come; and then with curious glance,
My scanty robe you eye,
And count my curls, and measure where,
Each flowing tress should lie:
And wonder why such tasteless wreaths
Of faded flow'rs I wear,
And chide because I could not stay,
To dress myself with care.
And when you ask to hear my song,
And I begin to play,
You utter, 'that is out of tune,'
And snatch the lyre away.
Now since you have so soon forgot,
My service, and my truth,
My kindness to your childhood shewn,
My friendship for your youth;
Go, seek some other muse, who loves
Your heavy task to bear;
For since your ways so much are chang'd,
I cast you from my care."
