"To Octavia"

When wit, and wine, and friends have met

And laughter crowns the festive hour

In vain I struggle to forget

Still does my heart confess thy power

And fondly turn to thee!

But Octavia, do not strive to rob

My heart, of all that soothes its pain

The mournful hope that every throb

Will make it break for thee!

(1827)