ODE X.
To
Belinda,
Upon her asking What is Love?
I
'Tis strange, Belinda, you shou'd ask,
To learn, what you so oft bestow!
You now impose too hard a Task,
And I my Weakness needs must show.
II
What Love is not, I know full well:
Blind Mortals, when they talk of Pain,
And Joys of Heaven, or of Hell,
By Negatives the Theme maintain.
III
True Love is not that rash Desire,
That sudden Start of Grief, and Joy,
Which soon becomes a raging Fire,
And does as soon it self destroy.
IV
Who call this Love, that Name disgrace,
Or never felt the noble Flame:
Before I saw your heav'nly Face,
I too imagin'd Love the same.
V
No! tis a Passion so divine,
The strongest Words elude our Pains,
When we this Ardour wou'd define;
The Image uncompleat remains.
VI
'Tis what your charming Eyes inspire;
'Tis what I feel; but can't express:
To know, like me, what you desire,
Belinda, you must feel no less.
