 | Poems |  |
72
AN ADDRESS TO CUPID,
On receiving a Refusal from a celebrated Beauty.
Pectora vario motu.
Virg.
Virg.
Imperious, wild, inconstant boy,
Thou source of social grief and joy,
The plaints of Reason hear;
Stay, ere you bid that arrow go,
Pointed with pain and arm'd with woe,
While I assail your ear.
Thou source of social grief and joy,
The plaints of Reason hear;
Stay, ere you bid that arrow go,
Pointed with pain and arm'd with woe,
While I assail your ear.
Thou daring urchin who presides
O'er the heart's wand'ring gushing tides,
And makes them sink or rise;
Who strikes the mightiest to the earth,
Who gives the infant raptures birth,
And language to the eyes.
O'er the heart's wand'ring gushing tides,
And makes them sink or rise;
Who strikes the mightiest to the earth,
Who gives the infant raptures birth,
And language to the eyes.
73
Shall I, to whom the world has bent,
Thus pine for lovely Anne's consent,
And live to be denied?
Doom'd the pale minion of Desire,
Consuming with my mental fire,
And harrow'd with my pride.
Thus pine for lovely Anne's consent,
And live to be denied?
Doom'd the pale minion of Desire,
Consuming with my mental fire,
And harrow'd with my pride.
Go to my Anne, with all thy skill
Touch her dull sense, and warm her will,
Expand her narrow mind;
Depict my bosom's fervid heat,
Say how my fever'd pulses beat,
And bid the nymph be kind.
Touch her dull sense, and warm her will,
Expand her narrow mind;
Depict my bosom's fervid heat,
Say how my fever'd pulses beat,
And bid the nymph be kind.
But think not, tho' I thus implore,
I'll, couchant, every good give o'er,
And tremble at your nod;
When Merit moans, with human care
To frown upon the suppliant's pray'r,
Dishonours but the god.
I'll, couchant, every good give o'er,
And tremble at your nod;
When Merit moans, with human care
To frown upon the suppliant's pray'r,
Dishonours but the god.
Tho' piteous Sappho call'd in vain,
Tho' Perseus hugg'd thy iron chain,
I will not be thy slave;
I'd sooner, tyrant, rush on death,
Abridge the progress of my breath,
And wed the chilly grave.
Tho' Perseus hugg'd thy iron chain,
I will not be thy slave;
I'd sooner, tyrant, rush on death,
Abridge the progress of my breath,
And wed the chilly grave.
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