 | A Collection of Poems |  |
97
THE Faded FLOWER.
'Tis hard to say if Beauty's Charms,Bring more of Blessings, or of Harms;
So short their Date, so frail their Force,
That oft the Blessing turns a Curse.
Thyrsis was smit, as once he 'spy'd,
A Bed of Lillies in their Pride,
He look'd, admir'd, and prais'd, a-while,
Then snatch'd the Glories from the Soil,
As fondly on his Bosom plac'd,
And taught their Charms to grace his Breast
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And all the flow'ry Glories shed;
The Change, no sooner Thyrsis 'spy'd,
But with the short Possession cloy'd,
The Lillies from his Breast are torn,
A Morning pride, an Evening scorn.
Thus some flush'd Youth, who feels the Flood
Of Fortune, and the Fire of Blood.
Upon some Fair-one casts his Eyes,
And sees ten Thousand Beauties rise;
He pants all o'er, and ev'ry Vein,
Glows fiercely, with redoubled Flame;
Eternal Truth, he swears, and cries
He's slain, and damn'd, if she denies:
Mov'd with his Passion, and Complaint,
Kind Nature draws her to consent,
With soft Reluctance, she complies,
Clings to the Bliss, and heaves, and dies;
But soon, Enjoyment viels her Charms,
No more the Youth, her Beauty warms,
But pall'd, he throws her from his Arms
Dispis'd and loath'd, her Favours grow,
An Angel once, a Strumpet now.
| A Collection of Poems | |