Those lays reach'd ROSAMONDA'S ear,
She fluttering, like a bird whom fear
Has drawn within the fascinating serpent's fangs,
Unable to conceal the pangs
Of pride, conflicting with returning love,
To hide her blushes, darts amid the grove:
Sweet showers fast sprinkle from her lovely eyes,
Which drown her short-liv'd scorn;
But as she moves the young musician flies,
Leaves her all wild, sad, weeping, and forlorn!