Classic Poem

I.

D AMON in vain you strive to move;
'Tis true my Heart was form'd for Love,
And own its native Flame.
But such a Flame, so pure a Fire,
Philander only can inspire,
And all its Softness claim.

II.

No more of cruel Scorn complain,
Too late, alas! you own'd your Pain,
Too late to find a Cure.

If Friendship to your Views be due,
Taste all the Ease that can bestow,
But Damon ask no more.