CXXVIII
TO CLARISSA
Upon dirtying her Lodgings
[_]
The attribution of this poem is questionable.
Dust from my earthy Surface fell,
And soil'd the fair Clarissa's Cell;
Clarissa's Eyes have Pow'r Divine,
And with uncommon Lustre shine;
I'm form'd of sordid Earth, which must,
When shin'd upon, be turn'd to Dust;
This Phœbus meaner Force can do,
Who is not half so bright as You;
Be not severe then in your Doom,
Since from your Self my Fault did come;
'Twas Wonder, when so near the Ray,
I did not moulder quite away;
She smiles, forgives; I feel the Pain,
Be angry, Charming Nymph, again;
Better to dye, than thus endure
What, You, ah Cruel! will not cure.