 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
91
ON A Masqu'd MISTRESS.
Well, then! my gentle, Night-piece Maid,
Must we still love, in Masquerade?
Is it ordain'd, by Fate, and Thee,
I ne'er that Magic Face shall see?
Unfit shall Noon, as Midnight, prove
To bring to Light the Nymph I love?
Still, of Relief, shall I despair,
And sigh before an absent Fair?
Must we still love, in Masquerade?
Is it ordain'd, by Fate, and Thee,
I ne'er that Magic Face shall see?
Unfit shall Noon, as Midnight, prove
To bring to Light the Nymph I love?
Still, of Relief, shall I despair,
And sigh before an absent Fair?
What! shall I kiss, embrace and toy,
Yet never know who gives the Joy?
A Fairy Maid! shall I caress,
Whom, I do not, and do, possess?
Yet never know who gives the Joy?
92
Whom, I do not, and do, possess?
I'll not take Oldfield to my Arms,
Unless I view bright Oldfield's Charms:
No! better, fancy'd Beauties trace
In Margaretta's open Face.
Unless I view bright Oldfield's Charms:
No! better, fancy'd Beauties trace
In Margaretta's open Face.
Forlorn and wretched may she prove,
Who, in the Dark, disguises Love!
Who, in the Dark, disguises Love!
Now! by Thy-self, by every Grace,
Which shines in thy Authentic Face,
And by those Eyes, I Thee conjure;
Those Eyes! which mine to Love allure;
O! give my longing Sight to see,
Your real Self, whate'er you be.
Your very Self to see, I ask;
Your Self, my Love, and not your Mask.
Which shines in thy Authentic Face,
And by those Eyes, I Thee conjure;
Those Eyes! which mine to Love allure;
O! give my longing Sight to see,
Your real Self, whate'er you be.
93
Your Self, my Love, and not your Mask.
Let me but know what 'tis I love,
A patient Lover I will prove
Of any Nymph; for I'm not nice;
But Vertue, Hid, is construed Vice.
A patient Lover I will prove
Of any Nymph; for I'm not nice;
But Vertue, Hid, is construed Vice.
If Miss but Licks, in Colours faint,
Men swear she's daub'd, all o'er, with paint;
And when she treats her Face, with Art,
They nauseate every other Part.
For Minds, with jealous Fears, accurst,
Brought to suspect, suspect the worst.
Men swear she's daub'd, all o'er, with paint;
And when she treats her Face, with Art,
They nauseate every other Part.
For Minds, with jealous Fears, accurst,
Brought to suspect, suspect the worst.
Your Features share not in the Foil,
Which shades the Nymphs on Afric's Soil;
You hung upon no tawny Breast;
No thick-lipp'd Black your Mother press'd:
Thy fresh Complexion, White and Red,
In Bucks, declare Thee born and bred.
Which shades the Nymphs on Afric's Soil;
You hung upon no tawny Breast;
No thick-lipp'd Black your Mother press'd:
94
In Bucks, declare Thee born and bred.
But, what if (Black as polish'd Jet)
Thy Sire, Thee (Blacker) did beget;
Yet, black, you might some Passions move;
All Colours have their Friends in Love.
At least, a frank and honest Mind,
When Colour fails, will make Men kind.
Thy Sire, Thee (Blacker) did beget;
Yet, black, you might some Passions move;
All Colours have their Friends in Love.
At least, a frank and honest Mind,
When Colour fails, will make Men kind.
With me, Simplicities alone,
For want of Fifty Charms, atone.
The native Ruby let me kiss;
To Priests I leave the painted Bliss.
Let Priests desire ungenuine Charms,
And court Delusion to their Arms;
They love Deceits, tho' ne'er so many,
And boast Religion, without any.
For want of Fifty Charms, atone.
The native Ruby let me kiss;
To Priests I leave the painted Bliss.
Let Priests desire ungenuine Charms,
And court Delusion to their Arms;
They love Deceits, tho' ne'er so many,
And boast Religion, without any.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |