And she sees me hov'ring near;

Trembling at her lovers rapture,

Up she springs--I fly away,

"Dearest! let's the insect capture

Come! I long to make my prey
Yonder pretty little dear!"

1767-9.
-----
APPARENT DEATH.

WEEP, maiden, weep here o'er the tomb of Love;

He died of nothing--by mere chance was slain.
But is he really dead?--oh, that I cannot prove:

A nothing, a mere chance, oft gives him life again.

1767-9.
-----
NOVEMBER SONG.

To the great archer--not to him

To meet whom flies the sun,
And who is wont his features dim