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 | The poetical works of John Trumbull . |  |
And when deserving lovers came,
Believed her smiles and own'd their flame,
Her bosom thrill'd, with joy affected
T' increase the list, she had rejected;
While pleased to see her arts prevail,
To each she told the self-same tale.
She wish'd in truth they ne'er had seen her,
And feign'd what grief it oft had giv'n her,
And sad, of tender-hearted make,
Grieved they were ruin'd for her sake.
'Twas true, she own'd on recollection,
She'd shown them proofs of kind affection:
But they mistook her whole intent,
For friendship was the thing she meant.
She wonder'd how their hearts could move 'em
So strangely as to think she'd love 'em;
She thought her purity above
The low and sensual flames of love;
And yet they made such sad ado,
She wish'd she could have loved them too.
She pitied them, and as a friend
She prized them more than all mankind,
And begg'd them not their hearts to vex,
Or hang themselves, or break their necks,
Told them 'twould make her life uneasy,
If they should run forlorn, or crazy;
Objects of love she could not deem 'em;
But did most marv'lously esteem 'em.
Believed her smiles and own'd their flame,
Her bosom thrill'd, with joy affected
T' increase the list, she had rejected;
While pleased to see her arts prevail,
To each she told the self-same tale.
She wish'd in truth they ne'er had seen her,
And feign'd what grief it oft had giv'n her,
And sad, of tender-hearted make,
Grieved they were ruin'd for her sake.
'Twas true, she own'd on recollection,
She'd shown them proofs of kind affection:
But they mistook her whole intent,
For friendship was the thing she meant.
She wonder'd how their hearts could move 'em
So strangely as to think she'd love 'em;
She thought her purity above
The low and sensual flames of love;
83
She wish'd she could have loved them too.
She pitied them, and as a friend
She prized them more than all mankind,
And begg'd them not their hearts to vex,
Or hang themselves, or break their necks,
Told them 'twould make her life uneasy,
If they should run forlorn, or crazy;
Objects of love she could not deem 'em;
But did most marv'lously esteem 'em.
| The poetical works of John Trumbull . | |