It is to hope, tho' hope were lost,
Tho' heav'n and earth thy passion crost;
Tho' she were bright as sainted queens above,
And thou the least and meanest swain
That folds his flock upon the plain,
Yet if thou dar'st not hope, thou dost not love.
It is to quench thy joy in tears,
To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears;
If pangs of jealousy thou hast not prov'd,
Tho' she were fonder and more true
Than any nymph old poets drew,
Oh never dream again that thou hast lov❜d.
If, when the darling maid is gone,
Thou dost not seek to be alone,
Wrapt in a pleasing trance of tender woe;
And muse, and fold thy languid arms,
Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
Thou dost not love, for love is nourish'd so,
If any hopes thy bosom share
But those which love has planted there, Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall, Thou never yet his power hast known; Love sits on a despotic throne,
And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.
Now if thou art so lost a thing,
Here all thy tender sorrows bring,
And prove whose patience longest can endure;
We'll strive whose fancy shall be lost
In dreams of fondest passion most,
For if thou thus hast lov'd, oh! never hope a cure.
Ir ever thou didst joy to bind
Two hearts in equal passion join'd,
Oh son of Venus! hear me now,
And bid Florella bless my vow.
any bliss reserv'd for me
Thou in the leaves of fate should'st see,
If any white propitious hour,
Pregnant with hoarded joys in store;
Now, now the mighty treasure give,
In her for whom alone I live;
In sterling love pay all the sum,
And I'll absolve the fates to come.
In all the pride of full-blown charms
Yield her, relenting, to my arms;
Her bosom touch with soft desires,
And let her feel what she inspires.
But, Cupid, if thine aid be vain
The dear reluctant maid to gain,
If still with cold averted eyes
She dash my hopes, and scorn my sighs;
O; grant ('tis all I ask of thee)
That I no more may change than she;
But still with duteous zeal love on,
When every gleam of hope is gone.
Leave me then alone to languish,
Think not time can heal my anguish,
Pity the woes which I endure
But never, never grant a cure.
s near a weeping spring reclin'd,
The beauteous Araminta pin'd,
And mourn'd a false ungrateful youth;
While dying echoes caught the sound,
And spread the soft complaints around
Of broken vows and alter'd truth;
An aged shepherd heard her moan,
And thus in pity's kindest tone
Address'd the lost despairing maid;
Cease, cease, unhappy fair, to grieve,
For sounds, tho' sweet, can ne'er relieve
A breaking heart by love betray'd.
Why shouldst thou waste such precious showers,
That fall like dew on wither'd flowers,
But dying passion neʼer`restor❜d;
In beauty's empire is no mean,
And woman, either slave or queen,
Is quickly scorn'd when not ador'd.
Those liquid pearls from either eye,
Which might an eastern empire buy,
Unvalued here and fruitless fall;
No art the season can renew
When love was young, and Damon true,
No tears a wandering heart recall.
Cease, cease to grieve, thy tears are vain,
Should those fair orbs in drops of rain,
Vie with a weeping southern sky;
For hearts o'ercome with love and grief
All nature yields but one relief;
Die, hapless Araminta, die.
Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes
My heart your own declare;
But for heaven's sake let it suffice
You reign triumphant there.
Forbear your utmost power to try,
Nor further urge your sway;
Press not for what I must deny,
For fear I should obey,
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