-by Thomas Moore (1806)

        Fly not yet; 'tis just the hour
        When pleasure, like the midnight flower
        That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
        Begins to bloom for sons of night,
         And maids who love the moon.
        'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
        That beauty and the moon were made;
        'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
        Set the tides and goblets flowing
        Oh ! stay, -oh ! stay,
        Joy so seldom weaves a chain
        Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
        To break it's links so soon.

        Fly not yet; the fount that play'd
        In times of old through Ammon's shade
        Though icy cold by day it ran,
        Yet still, like souls' of mirth, began
         To burn when night was near,
        And thus should woman's heart and looks
        At noon be cold as winter brooks,
        Nor kindled till the night, returning
        Brings their genial hour for burning.
         Oh ! stay,  -oh ! stay,-
       When did morning ever break,
       And find such beaming eyes awake
         As those that sparkle here?

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