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The poetical and dramatic works of Sir Charles Sedley

Collected and Edited from the Old Editions: With a preface on the text, explanatory and textual notes, an appendix containing works of doubtful authenticity, and a bibliography: By V. de Sola Pinto

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From Briscoe's Edition of 1722
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From Briscoe's Edition of 1722

CXI
TO CELINDA

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Celinda, think not by Disdain,
To vanquish my Desire
By telling me, I sigh in vain
And feed a hopeless Fire.
Despair it self too weak does prove,
Your Beauty to disarm,
By Fate I was ordain'd to Love,
As you were born to Charm.

CXII
A SONG

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Celinda
Prithee tell me, faithless Swain,
Why shou'd you such Passion feign,
On purpose to deceive me?
So soon as I to love began,
Then you began to leave me.

Damon
Celinda, you must blame your Fate,
Kindness has its certain Date,
E'er we the Joys have tasted,
Had you not then with feigned Hate
Love's kindest Hours wasted.
Then weep no more, nor sigh in vain,
But lay your Baits to catch again
A more deserving Lover;
For know, a Slave who's broke his Chain
You never can recover.


154

CXIII
CUPID'S RETURN

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Welcome, thrice welcome to my frozen Heart,
Thou long departed Fire,
How could'st thou so regardless be
Of one so true, so fond as me,
Whose early Thought, whose first Desire
Was pointed all to thee?
When in the Morning of my Day,
Thy Empire first began,
Pleased with the Prospect of thy Sway,
Into thy Arms I ran;
Without Reserve my willing Heart I gave;
Proud that I had my Freedom lost:
Contending which I ought to boast
The making thee a Sov'reign, or my self a Slave.
Still I am form'd to execute thy Will,
By me declare thy Power and Skill;
My Heart already by thy Fire
Is so prepar'd, is so refin'd,
There's nothing left behind
But infinite Desire.
O! would'st thou touch that lovely Maid,
(Whose Charms and thine I have obey'd)
With such another Flame,
The Heav'n that would appear in me,
Wou'd speak such Goodness dwelt in thee;
Thy Bow, thy Art,
No more need guide thy Dart;
No Art so stubborn but at that would aim.