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I / Hail, Muse! et cetera. - We left Juan sleeping, / Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, / And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, / And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest / To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, / Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, / Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, / And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!
II / Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours / Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why / With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, / And made thy best interpreter a sigh? / As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, / And place them on their breast - but place to die - / Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish / Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.