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The Captive.

Long I had laught at the vain Name of Love,
And thought it Fiction all; it ne'er cou'd move
My Eyes to wander, or enslave my Heart,
Freedom and that were one, and were too fond to part;
Freedom without whose Pastport Wealth were vain,
Pleasure a Clog, and Life it self a Pain.
But ah! too soon I found that Blessing gone,
Whose Loss, I fear, I must for ever moan.
I saw her, and no more; one pointed View
Softn'd my flinty Breast, and pierc'd it thro' and thro'.
O who can Love's resistless Darts controul,
That thro' our Eyes so soon can reach the Soul!
Yes Cælia, I'm your Captive from this Hour,
But do not govern with Tyrannick Pow'r;
Smile, and the Muse shall celebrate thy Name,
Make it her constant Theme, and give it lasting Fame.