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A heart whose flames are seen, tho' pure,
Needs every virtue's aid;
And she who thinks herself secure,
The soonest is betray'd.
STREPHON has fashion, wit and youth,
With all things else that please;
He nothing wants but love and truth
To ruin me with ease:
But he is flint, and bears the art
To kindle strong desire;
His power inflames another's heart,
Yet he ne'er feels the fire.
O! how it does my soul perplex,
When I his charms recall,
To think he should despise the sex,
Or, worse, should love them all!
My wearied heart, like Noah's dove,
Thus seeks in vain for rest;
Finding no hope to fix its love,
Returns into my breast.
WHEN clouds that angel face deform,
Anxious I view the coming storm :
When angry lightnings arm thine eye,
And tell the gathering tempest nigh,
I curse the sex, and bid adieu
To female friendship, love, and you.
But when soft passions rule your breast,
And each kind look some love has drest;
When cloudless smiles around you play,
And give the world a holiday;
I bless the hour when first I knew
Dear female friendship, love, and you.
CUPID, forbear thy childish arts;
I cannot, will not love;
Thy quiver emptied of its darts
On me would harmless prove.
In vain, fond boy, MIRANDA's eyes
You point with beamy fire;
STREPHON each killing glance defies,
And looks without desire.
Thy CHLOE's dimpled cheeks adorn
With gay bewitching smiles;
I laugh at all her wanton scorn,
And triumph o'er her wiles.
The snowy neck, the slender waist,
The gently-bending brow,
The ruby lip with moisture graced,
I view without a vow.
Should thy bright mother, beauty's queen,
Court me with open arms,
Adonis-like would I be seen
To slight her proffer'd charms.
This bold defiance STREPHON sends;
Hence, baffled boy, remove:
We are not foes, we are not friends:
I cannot, will not love.
FICKLE bliss, fantastic treasure,
Love, how soon thy joys are past! Since we soon must lose the pleasure, Oh, 't were better ne'er to taste!
Gods! how sweet would be possessing,
Did not time its charms destroy;
Or could lovers with the blessing
Lose the thought of Cupid's joy!
Cruel thoughts, that pain yet please me,
Ah, no more my rest destroy !
Show me still, if you would ease me,
Love's deceits, but not its joy.
Gods! what kind yet cruel powers
Force my will, to rack my mind!
Ah! too long we wait for flowers
Too too soon to fade design'd.
ON BELVIDERA's bosom lying,
Wishing, panting, sighing, dying;
The cold regardless maid to move
With unavailing prayers I sue;
You first have taught me how to love,
Ah! teach me to be happy too.
But she, alas! unkindly wise,
To all my sighs and tears replies,
Tis every prudent maid's concern
Her lover's fondness to improve;
If to be happy you should learn,
You quickly would forget to love."
BOAST not, mistaken swain, thy art
To please my partial eyes;
The charms that have subdued my heart
Another may despise.