Written in a Lady's Table-Book.

With what strange raptures would my soul be blest,
Were but her look an emblem of her breast!
As I from that all former marks efface.
And, uncontroll'd, put new ones in their place:
So might I chase all others from her heart,
And my own image in the stead impart.
But, ah! how short the bliss would prove, if he
Who seiz'd it next might do the same by me!