 | Poems |  |
Song. DE VOITURE.
I languish
in a silent Flame;
For she to whom my vowes encline
Doth own perfections so divine,
That but to speak were to disclose her Name.
If I should say that she the Store
Of Natures Graces doth comprize,
The Love and wonder of all Eyes,
Who will not guesse the Beauty I adore?
For she to whom my vowes encline
67
That but to speak were to disclose her Name.
If I should say that she the Store
Of Natures Graces doth comprize,
The Love and wonder of all Eyes,
Who will not guesse the Beauty I adore?
Or though I warily conceal
The Charms her looks and Soul possess;
Should I her cruelty expresse,
And say she smiles at all the Pains we feel,
Among such suppliants as implore
Pitty, distributing her Hate,
Inexorable as their Fate:
Who will not guesse the Beauty I adore?
The Charms her looks and Soul possess;
Should I her cruelty expresse,
And say she smiles at all the Pains we feel,
Among such suppliants as implore
Pitty, distributing her Hate,
Inexorable as their Fate:
Who will not guesse the Beauty I adore?
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