 | The Land of Love |  |
The Resolve.
Now, my fair Tyrant, I despise your Power;
'Tis Death, not you, becomes my Conqueror.
This easy Trophy, which your Scorn
Led bleeding by your Chariot Side,
Your haughty Vict'ry to adorn,
Has broke the Fetters of your Pride.
Death takes the Quarrel now in Hand,
And laughs at all your Eyes can do;
His Pow'r your Beauty can't withstand;
Not all your Smiles can the stern Victor bow.
He'll hold no Parley with your Wit,
Nor understands your wanton Play;
Not all your Arts can force him to submit,
Nor all your Charms oblige him to obey.
Nor Youth nor Beauty can inspire
His frozen Heart with Love's perswasive Fire;
Alas! you cannot warm him to one soft Desire.
O! mighty Death! that art aboye
The Pow'r of Beauty and of Love!
'Tis Death, not you, becomes my Conqueror.
This easy Trophy, which your Scorn
Led bleeding by your Chariot Side,
Your haughty Vict'ry to adorn,
Has broke the Fetters of your Pride.
Death takes the Quarrel now in Hand,
And laughs at all your Eyes can do;
His Pow'r your Beauty can't withstand;
Not all your Smiles can the stern Victor bow.
He'll hold no Parley with your Wit,
Nor understands your wanton Play;
Not all your Arts can force him to submit,
Nor all your Charms oblige him to obey.
Nor Youth nor Beauty can inspire
His frozen Heart with Love's perswasive Fire;
Alas! you cannot warm him to one soft Desire.
O! mighty Death! that art aboye
The Pow'r of Beauty and of Love!
34
Thus sullen with my Fate sometimes I grew,
And then a Fit of Softness would ensue:
Then weep, and on my Knees implore my Fair,
And speak as if Aminta present were.
And then a Fit of Softness would ensue:
Then weep, and on my Knees implore my Fair,
And speak as if Aminta present were.
| The Land of Love | |