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THE PLATONICK

Fair Amaranta, wert thou not to blame,
To blow the Fire, and wonder at the Flame?
I did converse, 'tis true, so far was mine,
But that I lov'd, and hop'd was wholly thine;
Not hop'd as others do, for a Return,
But that I might without offending burn.
I thought those Eyes which every Hour enslave
Could not remember all the Wounds they gave:
Forgotten in the Crowd I wisht to lie,
And of your Coldness, not your Anger, die;
Yet since you know I love, 'tis now no time
Longer to hide, let me excuse the Crime,
Seeing what Laws I to my Passion give,
Perhaps you may consent that it should live:
First then, it never shall a Hope advance,
Of waiting on you, but by seeming chance;
I at a distance will adore your Eyes,
As awful Persians do the Eastern Skies;
I never will presume to think of Sex,
Nor with gross Thoughts my deathless Love perplex;
I tread a pleasant Path without Design;
And to thy Care my Happiness resign:
From Heaven it self thy Beauty cannot be
A freer Gift, than is my Love to thee.