 | The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester |  |
The Answer.
Nothing adds to your fond fire,
More than Scorne, and cold disdaine,
I to cherish your desire,
Kindnesse us'd, but 'twas in vaine.
You insulted on your Slave,
Humble Love you soone refus'd
Hope not then a Pow'r to have
Which Ingloriously you us'd.
More than Scorne, and cold disdaine,
I to cherish your desire,
Kindnesse us'd, but 'twas in vaine.
You insulted on your Slave,
Humble Love you soone refus'd
Hope not then a Pow'r to have
Which Ingloriously you us'd.
Thinke not Thirsis I will e're
By my Love, my Empire loose,
You grow Constant through despair,
Love return'd, you wou'd abuse.
Tho' you still possesse my heart,
Scorne, and Rigour, I must feigne,
Ah! forgive that only Art,
Love, has left your Love to gaine.
By my Love, my Empire loose,
You grow Constant through despair,
Love return'd, you wou'd abuse.
Tho' you still possesse my heart,
Scorne, and Rigour, I must feigne,
Ah! forgive that only Art,
Love, has left your Love to gaine.
You that cou'd my Heart subdue;
To new Conquests, ne're pretend,
Let your Example make me true
And of a Conquer'd Foe, a Friend.
Then if e're I shou'd complaine,
Of your Empire, or my Chain,
Summon all your Pow'rfull Charmes,
And fell the Rebell in your Armes.
To new Conquests, ne're pretend,
Let your Example make me true
And of a Conquer'd Foe, a Friend.
22
Of your Empire, or my Chain,
Summon all your Pow'rfull Charmes,
And fell the Rebell in your Armes.
| The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester | |