Classic Poem

I.

While, with well-acted anger, you complain ,
Still you attempt your charming task again;
And still, with lovely petulance , complain,
That still you strike the trembling strings , in vain.
Still you complain! and still my wond'ring soul
Is wildly beckon'd, by the wanton sound:
Thro' my rais'd fancy circling phantoms roll,
My thoughts , in fairy mazes, dance around!
Still you complain, how ill your work is done,
While gazing and astonish'd, I,
Who feel myself already die,
E'en while your strings you do but try ,
Am wildly wond'ring, when you once go on,
Where I shall be — and how transform'd, anon!

II.

Ah! she begins! guard, guard thee, flutt'ring life ,
Dissolve not, in the blissful strife;
And nature bends, like reeds , before each breezy strain!
Yet still, tyrannic sporter , you complain !

V.

Ah! cruel fair! too late, alas! I see
The needless stratagem , which pride of charms
Has taught your beauty's , too sufficient arms!
Oh! since with open force you conquer'd me ,
Why, ( worthless since I seem to you to be)
Why use you arts , to vanquish me again;
You act, in this, as long-try'd champions do,
Who fight with some unpractis'd foe,
Whose weakness they despise, and know.
At first, a seeming ignorance they display!
With aukward gestures , wait each threaten'd blow ,
And, with a feign'd distrust , a while give way:
But when, at length, resolv'd no more to toy,
Their strength , and skill , they all at once employ!
Like me , th' astonish'd enemy , amaz'd,
And unprepar'd to meet such new alarms;
When, in chill wonder, he a while has gaz'd,
Trembles, kneels down, and throws away his arms .