T O you, dear Object of my first Desires,
And only Partner of my softest Fires;
In artless Eloquence these Lines I send,
And let my Love each lowly Verse commend.
Nor scorn these Numbers, tho' too sadly slow,
Alas! they labour with a Weight of Woe!
The Sibyl of the Godhead dispossess'd,
Speechless, no more the P ROPHETESS confess'd:
The Muse bereft of your inspiring Eyes,
Neglected, now her wonted Aid denies,
From you alone her Harmony she drew,
Nor ever charm'd, unless she charm'd by you.

W HAT can I tell you new! You know I love
For that long since is register'd above.
But when I think on that amazing Art,
That could so easily engage my Heart:
I dread I know not what — but O my Dear!
Kindly forgive your Swain the fondling Fear,
This Heart as easily you may despise,
And scorn so mean a Conquest of your Eyes.
For Fancy often hears new Lovers sigh,
And prostrate sees adoring Vassals die:
But now to chace the Image of Despair,
Kindly she whispers Comfort in my Ear.
Then Heavens! what rising Raptures fill my Soul!
How brisk the Tides of Life around me roll!
Reviving Pleasures dance in ev'ry Vein,
I love, I languish; and I live again,
But ah! too soon these Intervals decay,
And in returning Sorrow melt away!
Raving I curse the stretching Hills that rise
To intercept the Pleasure of my Eyes:
With mournful Looks I measure the wide Vale,
And waft kind Wishes in each passing Gale;
Then melancholy, mourn my self asleep,
And my sad Soul in Tears and Slumbers steep.

S OMETIMES to lose, or chace my Cares away,
I mix among the Hurry of the Day.
Pensive, I wander thro' each crowded Street,
But lost my self, bewail my faithless Feet,
The Streets to my distemper'd Fancy seem
But swimming Shadows of a sickly Dream:
While to my Mind the fluctuating Crouds,
Appear but solitary waving Woods.
Where-e'er I turn my thoughtful Eyes, I find
All, but the lovely Image of my Mind;
'Till lost in wild Rapidity of Thought,
Amaz'd, I wonder at the Place I sought.
I F I to Books, and Study take Recourse,
Ev'n Books, and Study lose their wonted Force;
For what's persuasive Eloquence to me,
Unless to breathe my Love-sick Soul to thee!
And why should I perplexing Thoughts explore,
My Mind's too thoughtful to admit of more.

T HU s I the Drudgery of Life pursue,
For Life's but painful Bondage void of You;
My Cares, almost despairing of Relief,
Turn fancy'd Pleasures into real Grief.

B UT O my lovely Laura , charming Fair,
Joy of my Soul, and Object of my Prayer;
By all those Transports that my Soul exprest,
When I lean'd trembling on your panting Breast:
By all those Languishments that told my Love,
Those Languishments which then could Laura move!
By those dear Sighs that on each Whisper hung,
And sweeten'd e'en the Music of your Tongue:
So may kind Fortune try each happy Art,
To join true Lovers which she cannot part.
Inviolable let our Vows remain:
And imitate, my Dear, your faithful Swain.