Classic Poem

You ask me, charming fair,
Why thus I pensive go,
From whence proceeds my care,
What nourishes my woe?

Why seek'st the cause to find
Of ills that I endure?
Ah! why so vainly kind,
Unless resolv'd to cure?

It needs no magic art
To know whence my alarms;
Examine your own heart,
Go read them in your charms.

Whene'er the youthful quire
Along the vale advance,
To raise, at your desire,
The lay, or form the dance:

Beneficent to each,
You some kind grace afford,
Gentle in deed or speech,
A smile or friendly word.

Whilst on my love you put
No value;—or the same,
As if my fire was but
Some paltry village flame.

At this my colour flies,
My breast with sorrow heaves;
The pain I would disguise,
Nor man nor maid deceives.

My love stands all display'd,
Too strong for art to hide,
How soon the heart's betray'd
With such a clue to guide!

How cruel is my fate,
Affronts I could have borne,
Found comfort in your hate,
Or triumph'd in your scorn:

But whilst I thus adore,
I'm driven to wild despair;
Indifference is more
Than raging love can bear.