The conquest gain'd, he left his prize,
He left her to complain,
To talk of joy with weeping eyes,
And measure timely pain.
But heaven will take the mourner's part
In pity to despair ;
And the last sigh that rends the heart
Shall waft the spirit there.
FROM anxious zeal and factious strife,
From all the uneasy cares of life,
From beauty still to merit blind,
And still to fools and coxcombs kind;
To where the woods in brightest green,
Like rising theatres are seen,
Where gently murm'ring runs the rill,
And draws fresh streams from ev'ry hill;
Where Philomel in mournful strains
Like me of hopeless love complains,
Retir❜d I pass the livelong day,
And idly trifle life away :
My lyre to tender accents strung,
I tell each slight, each scorn and wrong,
Then reason to my aid I call,
Review past scenes, and scorn them all.
Superior thoughts my mind engage,
Allur'd by Newton's tempting page,
Through new-found worlds I wing my flight,
And trace the glorious source of light:
But should Clarinda there appear,
With all her charms of shape and air,
How frail my fixt resolves would prove,
Again I'd yield, again I'd love.
HY heaves my fond bosom? ah what can it
mean!
Why flutters my heart that was once so serene?
Why this sighing and trembling when Daphne is
near?
Or why, when she's absent, this sorrow and fear?
Forever, methinks, I with wonder could trace
The thousand soft charms that embellish your face.
Each moment I view thee, new beauties I find;
With thy face I am charm'd, but enslav'd by thy
mind.
Untainted by folly, unsullied by pride,
There native good humour and virtue reside.
Pray heaven that virtue thy soul may supply [die.
With compassion for him, who, without thee must
TELL me, Damon, dost thou languish
With a slow, consuming fire;
Melting still in speechless anguish,
For the maid thou dost admire?
If thy heart such passion prove,
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.
Flying, dost thou still pursue her ?
Absent, does she haunt thy dream?
Present, dost thou ceaseless woo her?
Is her worth thy only theme?
If thy heart such passion prove,
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.
Does each rival's merit grieve thee?
Whilst in health, dost thou complain?
Can no balm but love relieve thee?
None but Celia ease thy pain?
If thy heart such passion prove,
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.
Canst thou view each bright perfection
In her mind, and in her face?
Does each fault escape detection,
Ev'ry blemish seem a grace?
If thy heart such passion prove,
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.
Then in love if there be pleasure,
Unallay'd by care or pain,
Venus shall confer the treasure.
On her true devoted swain.
Venus shall thy suit approve ;
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.
TELL me not how fair she is,
I have no mind to hear
The story of that distant bliss
I never shall come near :
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.
And tell me not how fond I am
To tempt my daring fate
From whence no triumph ever came,
But to repent too late:
There is some hope ere long I
In silence doat myself away.
I ask no pity, Love, from thee,
Nor will thy justice blame,
So that thou wilt not envy me
The glory of my flame :
Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, In that it falls her sacrifice.
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