The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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To a Lady,
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
To a Lady,
desiring her Letters might not be exposed.
No! thou best soul, that e'er this body knew,
Unhappy I may be, but not untrue!
Blest, or unblest, my love can ne'er decay,
Nor could I, where I could not love, betray.
Cold, and unjust, the shocking caution kills,
And, in one meaning, spots me o'er with ills.
Silent, as sacred lamps, in bury'd urns,
The conscious flame of lovers inward burns:
Life should be torn, and racks be stretch'd in vain,
And vary'd tortures tire their fruitless pain,
E're but a thought of mine shou'd do thee wrong,
Or spread thy beauties on the public tongue.
Unhappy I may be, but not untrue!
Blest, or unblest, my love can ne'er decay,
Nor could I, where I could not love, betray.
Cold, and unjust, the shocking caution kills,
And, in one meaning, spots me o'er with ills.
Silent, as sacred lamps, in bury'd urns,
The conscious flame of lovers inward burns:
Life should be torn, and racks be stretch'd in vain,
And vary'd tortures tire their fruitless pain,
E're but a thought of mine shou'd do thee wrong,
Or spread thy beauties on the public tongue.
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Yet, thou can'st fear me—oh! be lost the shame,
Nor heap dishonour on my future name!
Have I been never lov'd?—yet, cruel, tell,
Whom I betray'd to thee, tho' lov'd so well?
Take thy sweet mischiefs back, their charms erase,
Oh! leave me poor, but never think me base.
Not e'en, when death shall veil thy starry eyes,
Shall thy dear letters, from my ashes, rise;
Fix'd to my heart, the grave shall give 'em room
To charm my waking soul, in worlds to come.
While in my verse, with far more faint essay,
Thy wonders, I to after times convey;
Tell thy vast heav'n of sweets, and sing thy name,
'Till fir'd by thee, whole kingdoms catch thy flame.
Nor heap dishonour on my future name!
Have I been never lov'd?—yet, cruel, tell,
Whom I betray'd to thee, tho' lov'd so well?
Take thy sweet mischiefs back, their charms erase,
Oh! leave me poor, but never think me base.
Not e'en, when death shall veil thy starry eyes,
Shall thy dear letters, from my ashes, rise;
Fix'd to my heart, the grave shall give 'em room
To charm my waking soul, in worlds to come.
While in my verse, with far more faint essay,
Thy wonders, I to after times convey;
Tell thy vast heav'n of sweets, and sing thy name,
'Till fir'd by thee, whole kingdoms catch thy flame.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |