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 |
 |
To the same.
|
|
|
|
 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
48
To the same.
Yes—now 'tis time to die—despair comes on;
Who keeps the body, when the soul is gone?
She sets—fair light, that shew'd me all my joy,
And, like the sun's, her absence must destroy.
She, who once wept my fancyd loss of breath,
Now, crimeless murd'rer! gives me real death.
Who keeps the body, when the soul is gone?
She sets—fair light, that shew'd me all my joy,
And, like the sun's, her absence must destroy.
She, who once wept my fancyd loss of breath,
Now, crimeless murd'rer! gives me real death.
Yet, have a care, touch'd heart, nor sigh one thought,
That stains such goodness with a purpos'd fault.
Soft, as her tears, her gentle meanings move;
Her soul sheds sweetness, tho' her look is love.
Her voice is musick, tun'd to heav'n's low note;
Her touch bids transport, thro' each art'ry, float;
Her step is dignity, by pity checkt;
At once, she fans desire, and plants respect.
Unconscious of her charms, she dreams of none,
And doubling other's praises, shuns her own.
Modest, in pow'r, as kneeling angels pray,
Noiseless, as night's soft shade, tho' bright, as day.
Wise, unassumingly; serenely deep,
Easy as air, and innocent, as sleep:
Blooming, like beauty when adorn'd for sin,
Yet, like the bud, unblown, all blush within.
That stains such goodness with a purpos'd fault.
Soft, as her tears, her gentle meanings move;
Her soul sheds sweetness, tho' her look is love.
Her voice is musick, tun'd to heav'n's low note;
Her touch bids transport, thro' each art'ry, float;
Her step is dignity, by pity checkt;
At once, she fans desire, and plants respect.
Unconscious of her charms, she dreams of none,
And doubling other's praises, shuns her own.
Modest, in pow'r, as kneeling angels pray,
Noiseless, as night's soft shade, tho' bright, as day.
49
Easy as air, and innocent, as sleep:
Blooming, like beauty when adorn'd for sin,
Yet, like the bud, unblown, all blush within.
O! 'tis impossible, to quit such bliss,
Yet live, superior to a loss, like this!
Where will she, next, her thousand conquests make?
On what new climate will her sun-shine break?
Where will she next, (sweet tasker of my care!)
Teach our charm'd sex, to hope, to wish, to dare?
Far from her fruitless guardian's watchful eye,
What may she hear! what answer! oh! I'll die.
Bless'd by her sight—time's race were one short stage;
She gone—one widow'd moment were an age.
Yet live, superior to a loss, like this!
Where will she, next, her thousand conquests make?
On what new climate will her sun-shine break?
Where will she next, (sweet tasker of my care!)
Teach our charm'd sex, to hope, to wish, to dare?
Far from her fruitless guardian's watchful eye,
What may she hear! what answer! oh! I'll die.
Bless'd by her sight—time's race were one short stage;
She gone—one widow'd moment were an age.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |