Oft I revolve in this distracted mind
Each word, each look, that spoke my charmer kind;
But oh! how dear their memory I pay!
What pleasures past can present cares allay?
Of all I love for ever dispossess'd:
Ah! what avails to think I once was bless'd?
Hard disposition of unequal fate!
Mix'd are our joys, and transient are their date;
Nor can reflection bring them back again,
Yet brings an after-sting to ev'ry pain.