Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, TO EDDLESTON. LET Folly smile, to view the names Yet Virtue will have greater claims To love, than rank with vice combined. And though unequal is thy fate, Since title decked my higher birth; Yet envy not this gaudy state; Thine is the pride of modest worth. Our souls at least congenial meet, Our intercourse is not less sweet, Since worth of rank supplies the place. REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. WHY, Pigot, complain Of this damsel's disdain, Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, Yet, believe me, a sigh Will never obtain a coquette. Would you teach her to love? For a time seem to rove; But leave her awhile, She shortly will smile, And then you may kiss your coquette. For such are the airs Of these fanciful fairs, They think all our homage a debt ; Yet a partial neglect Soon takes an effect, And humbles the proudest coquette. Dissemble your pain, And lengthen your chain, And seem her hauteur to regret; She no more will deny If still, from false pride, Your pangs she deride, This whimsical virgin forget; Some other admire, Who will melt with your fire, And laugh at the little coquette. For me, I adore Some twenty or more, And love them most dearly; but yet, I'd abandon them all, Did they act like your blooming coquette. No longer repine, Adopt this design, And break through her slight-woven net; Away with despair, No longer forbear, To fly from the captious coquette. Then quit her, my friend! Your bosom defend, Ere quite with her snares you're beset: Lest your deep-wounded heart, When incensed by the smart, Should lead you to curse the coquette. TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. YOUR pardon, my friend, Your pangs to remove, Since your beautiful maid No more I your folly regret; She's now most divine, And I bow at the shrine Yet, still, I must own, I should never have known From your verses, what else she deserved; Your pain seemed so great, I pitied your fate, As your fair was so devilish reserved. Since the balm-breathing kiss Can such wonderful transports produce; When your lips once have met," My counsel will get but abuse. You say, when "I rove, I've loved a good number, Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. I will not advance, By the rules of romance, While my blood is thus warm, To mix in the Platonist's school; Was my passion so pure, Thy mistress would think me a fool. And if I should shun Every woman for one, Whose image must fill my whole breast Whom I must prefer, And sigh but for her— What an insult 'twould be to the rest! Now, Strephon, good bye; I cannot deny Your passion appears most absurd; Such love as you plead Is pure love indeed, For it only consists in the word. |