 | Letters and poems |  |
89
The Antidote.
When I see the bright Nymph who my Heart does enthral,
When I view her soft Eyes, and her languishing Air,
Her Merit so great, my own Merit so small,
It makes me adore, and it makes me despair.
When I view her soft Eyes, and her languishing Air,
Her Merit so great, my own Merit so small,
It makes me adore, and it makes me despair.
But when I consider, that she squanders on Fools
All those Treasures of Beauty with which she is stor'd;
My Fancy it damps, my Passion it cools,
And it makes me despise what before I ador'd.
All those Treasures of Beauty with which she is stor'd;
My Fancy it damps, my Passion it cools,
And it makes me despise what before I ador'd.
Thus sometimes I despair, and sometimes I despise;
I love, and I hate, but I never esteem.
The Passion grows up, when I view her bright Eyes,
Which my Rival's destroy, when I look upon them.
I love, and I hate, but I never esteem.
The Passion grows up, when I view her bright Eyes,
Which my Rival's destroy, when I look upon them.
90
How wisely does Nature things so diff'rent unite!
In such odd Compositions our safety is found;
As the Blood of the Scorpion is a Cure for the Bite;
So her Folly makes whole, whom her Beauty does wound.
In such odd Compositions our safety is found;
As the Blood of the Scorpion is a Cure for the Bite;
So her Folly makes whole, whom her Beauty does wound.
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