BLOOMING as the youthful May,
As the brilliant morning gay,
(Loves and graces playing round
Ever where the nymph is found)
Smiling, she a needle drew,
And my sleeve transfixed thro':
Touch'd my arm -- tho' small the smart,
Yet I feel it at my heart.

Cupid from his polish'd bow,
Never did an arrow throw,
In his most capricious whim,
Half so fatal or so keen.
Wounded whither shall I go,
But to her that gave the blow?