Classic Poem

While from our looks, fair nymph, you guess
The secret passions of our mind;
My heavy eyes, you say, confess
A heart to love and grief inclined.

There needs, alas! but little art
To have this fatal secret found;
With the same ease you threw the dart,
'Tis certain you can show the wound.

How can I see you, and not love,
While you as opening cast are fair?
While cold as northern blasts you prove,
How can I love, and not despair?

The wretch in double fetters bound
Your potent mercy may release;
Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,
Fair prophetess, my grief would cease.