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SONNET XII.
Maiden, there's many a fairer face than thineFlitting to-night around me, many an eye
As lustrous, locks as glossy in their dye,
And haply some few shapes scarce less divine:
Yet for no other brow must I entwine
This coronal of rhymes; the time's gone by,
When, like a lover, I could sit and sigh,
And breathe despairing vows at beauty's shrine
My gaze hath now grown passionless; yet long
Have I, (poor foolish dreamer,) through the dance
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Watching thy gay and artless countenance,
And form that floats so lightsomely along
With grace by nature fashion'd—not by France.
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