Yet, whilst I melt in tender fighs,
Olet foft pity meet my eyes,
And gently treat the facrifice
Your charms have made fo willing.
While due decorum I maintain,
O kindly use your love-fick fwain;
Suftain my hopes, however vain,
For frowns from you were killing.
Then, thus in facred friendship bleft,
Shall each one find in one's own breaft
A pleafure, not to be expreft,
Nor felt by foolish rovers.
How gently then will life decay,
And time unheeded steal away
In converfation good and gay,
Becoming virtuous lovers?
WAY with forrow and whining
Your rival is mighty, 'tis true: But can there be reason, in pining,
While the fair is conftant to you?
What tho' fhe's in midst of danger,
Virtue's the field of her heart;
No flatt'ry, no threats, can change her,
Who's proof against terror, and art.
The honest, the innocent, lover
May reft, or travel, unarm'd.
What creature will venture to move her,
By whom the creation is charm'd?
When Horace was heedlefs ftraying,
In his Sabinian grove,
A wolf, intent upon preying,
Pafs'd by, and did homage to love.
ow difmal's the lover's condition,
H When cruelty governs
the fair?
When the proper, the only, physician,
Infults o'er her servant's despair?
His fuff'rings afford her a pleasure,
Increasing, the more he complains;
The more that he doats on his treasure,
The fafter fhe binds him in chains.
Refiftlefs, all-conquering, creature!
Difdain not to cure what
O prove not a rebel to nature,
Nor laugh at love's fovereign laws.
Against your own self it is treason
To torture a heart, that is thine:
My heart is your own; and what reason
That the pain shou'd longer be mine?
Yet deep, tho' the darts of your beauty
Have wounded the heart of your fwain,
I think it both pleasure and duty,
To court and to fuffer the pain.
Delightful's the true lover's anguifh,
In craving, it ever contents!
'Tis torture to pine and to languish,
But pleases the while it torments,
ERT thou but my own thing,
I wou'd love thee, I wou'd love thee:
Wirt thou but my own thing,
How dearly wou'd I love thee?
As round the elm th' enamour'd vine
Delights, with wanton arms, to twine,
So I'd encirle thee in mine,
And fhew how well I love thee.
Wert thou but &c.
This earth my paradife fhou'd be,
I'd grafp a heav'n of joys in thee,
For thou art all thy fex to me,
So fondly do I love thee.
Wert thou but &c.
Shou'd thunder roar its loud alarms,
Amidst the clash of hoftile arms,
I'd foftly fink among thy charms,
And only live to love thee.
Wert thou but, &c.
Let fortune drive me far away,
Or make me fall to foes a prey,
My flame for thee fhall ne'er decay,
And, dying, I will love thee.
Wert thou but &c.
Tho' I were number'd with the dead,
My foul fhou'd hover round thy head;
I may be turn'd a filent fhade,
But never cease to love thee.
HASE me not away, my fair;
Let love have gentler fate;
More mild wou'd death to me appear,
Than Mariana's hate.
So foft, fo pow'rful are your charms,
In vain I'd ftrive to fly;
Then, let me live, in your dear arms,
Or, in your presence die.
Tho' others melt, when I complain,
My fate hangs on your will;
O'er me, fo abfolute you reign,
None else can fave, or kill.
Drawn by your influence, I return,
And rather chufe t'expire
Amidst the flames, by which I burn,
Than waste in distant fire.
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