 | Poems (1717) |  |
THE DREAM.
To the pale Tyrant, who to Horrid GravesCondemns so many thousand helpless Slaves,
Ungrateful we do gentle Sleep compare,
Who, tho' his Victories as num'rous are,
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But woful Cares that load Men while they wake.
When his soft Charms had eas'd my weary Sight
Of all the baneful Troubles of the Light,
Dorinda came, divested of the Scorn
Which the unequall'd Maid so long had worn;
How oft, in vain, had Love's great God essay'd
To tame the stubborn Heart of that bright Maid?
Yet spight of all the Pride that swells her Mind,
The humble God of Sleep can make her kind.
A rising Blush increas'd the Native Store
Of Charms, that but too fatal were before.
Once more present the Vision to my View,
The sweet Illusion, gentle Fate, renew!
How kind, how lovely She, how ravish'd I!
Shew me, blest God of Sleep, and let me dye.
| Poems (1717) | |