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"Sappho and Phaon", by Mary Robinson, [1796],

Xviii. To Phaon.

Why art thou changd? O Phaon! tell me why?

Love flies reproach, when passion feels decay;

Or, I would paint the raptures of that day,

When, in sweet converse, mingling sigh with sigh,

I markd the graceful languor of thine eye

As on a shady bank entrancd we lay:

O! Eyes! whose beamy radiance stole away

As stars fade trembling from the burning sky!

Why art thou changd? dear source of all my woes!

Though dark my bosoms tint, through evry vein

A ruby tide of purest lustre flows,

Warmd by thy love, or chilld by thy disdain;

And yet no bliss this sensate Being knows;

Ah! why is rapture so allied to pain?