Be kind to the young thing

Stella, darling of the Muses,

Fairer than the blooming spring, O,

Sweetest theme the poet chuses,

When of thee he strives to sing, O.

Whilst my soul with wonder traces

All thy charms of face and mind, O,

All the beauties, all the graces,

Of thy sex in thee I find, O.

Love, and joy, and admiration,

In my breast alternate rise, O,

Words no more can paint my passion

Than the pencil can thine eyes, O.

Lavish nature, thee adorning,

O'er thy cheeks and lips hath spread, O,

Colours that do shame the morning,

Shining with celestial red, O.