 | Poetical works [1797] |  |
A SONG TO PHYLLIS.
[I]
Phyllis, we not grieve that nature,Forming you, has done her part;
And in every single feature
Shew'd the utmost of her art.
II
But in this it is pretendedThat a mighty grievance lies,
54
Whilst you wound us with your eyes.
III
Love's a senseless inclination,Where no mercy's to be found;
But is just, where kind compassion
Gives us balm to heal the wound.
IV
Persians, paying solemn dutyTo the rising sun, inclin'd,
Never would adore his beauty,
But in hopes to make him kind.
| Poetical works [1797] | |