Classic Poem

A SONG .

R E member, false Damon, how often you've said,
You lov'd me as well as a man could a maid;
Though you slight me at last, and I cannot tell why,
Yet, trust me, I never with sorrow shall die.

In my bosom so tender, your power to prove,
You planted the fair blooming flow'ret of love;
But for its destruction a frown you prepar'd,
To blast at your pleasure the flowret you rear'd.

Yet boast not your conquest, tho' from me you part,
Nor think yourself wholly possess'd of my heart;
Your smiles are not summer to melt the cold snow,
And your frowns are not winter, I'd have you to know.

Go seek for a maid that has money in store,
And amuse yourself often in counting it o'er;
Yet, Damon, believe me, your bliss will be small,
If counting your gold and your silver be all.

He that sets his heart riches and honour to find,
Will learn that a kingdom's too small for his mind;
He hoards up his treasures, and thinks himself scant,
While the poor that's contented ne'er feels any want.

The joys of the wealthy are joys of a day,
For riches have wings and do oft fly away;
And when they are flying we generally find,
A long train of sorrow's impending behind.

May all pleasures attend you, that treasures can bring,
May you find of your joys a perpetual spring;
Yet I'll envy her not, that has money in store,
Nor think myself wretched, although I am poor.

Perhaps I the truth of some shepherd may prove,
Whose treasure's contentment, whose pleasure is love;
Then I without wealth shall be happy as you,
So Damon, false Damon, for ever adieu.