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With sweet music and song,On pavement, are thine,

"But why should sorrow cloud thy brow?That, dearest love, which fills thee nowIs fraught with joy and ecstasy.Prepared in one alone for thee,That he within thine eye may findSolace when fortune proves unkind,And be newborn through many a kiss,That he receives with inward bliss;When'er he clasps thee to his breast.May he from all his toils find restWhen he in thy dear arms shall sink,May he new life and vigour drink:Fresh joys of youth shalt thou obtain,In merry jest rejoice again.With raillery and roguish spite,Thou now shalt tease him, now delight.Thus Love will nevermore grow old,Thus will the minstrel ne'er be cold!"

To Psyche the poetic art;Prosaic-pure her soul remain'd.No wondrous sounds escaped her lyre