INE Z.

NAY, smile not at my sullen brow
Alas! I cannot smile again:

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

And dost thou ask, what secret woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth?

And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe?

It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most:

It is that weariness which springs

From all I meet, or hear, or see:

To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.