« НазадПродовжити »
Ler not Love on me bestow
I know not what the lovers feign
Way we love, and why we hate,
Is not granted us to know; Random chance, or wilful fate
Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.
If on me Zelinda frown,
Madness ’tis all in me to grieve; Since her will is not her own,
Why should I uneasy live.
If I for Zelinda die
Deaf to poor Mizella's cries, Ask not me the reason why ;
Seek the riddle in the skies.
[LADY MARY W. MONTAGUE.)
DEAR Colin prevent my warm blushes,
Since how can I speak without pain ? My eyes have oft told you my wishes,
O! can't you their meaning explain?
My passion would lose by expression,
And you too might cruelly blame; Then don't you expect a confession,
Of what is too tender to name.
Since your's is the province of speaking,
Why should you expect it from me? Our wishes should be in our keeping,
Till you tell us what they should be.
Then quickly why don't you discover?
heart feel such tortures as mine, Eyes need not tell over and over
What I in my bosom confine.
[SIR W. YONGE.]
Good Madam, when ladies are willing,
A man must needs look like a fool; For me I would not give a shilling
For one that can love without rule.
At least you should wait for our offers,
Nor snatch like old maids in despair ; If you've liv'd to these years without proffers,
Your sighs are now lost in the air.
You should leave us to guess at your blushing,
And not speak the matter too plain ; 'Tis ours to be forward and pushing;
'Tis yours to affect a disdain.
That you're in a terrible taking
From all your fond oglings I see;
Indeed is too mellow for me.
When first I sought fair Cælia's love,
And ev'ry charm was new,
To be for ever true.
But long in vain did I adore,
Long wept and sigh'd in vain; Still she protested, vow'd, and swore
She ne'er would ease my pain.
At last o'ercome she made me blest,
And yielded all her charms; And I forsook her when possest,
And fled to others arms.
But let not this, dear Cælia, now
To rage thy breast incline,
Should I remember mine?
Corinna cost me many a prayer, ,
Ere I her heart could gain, But she ten thousand more should hear
To take that heart again.
Despair I thought the greatest curse,
But to my cost I find Corinna's constancy still worse,
Most cruel when too kind.
How blindly then does Cupid carve,
How ill divide the joy,
And then with plenty cloy.
All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone; Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone,