 | Poems Upon Several Occasions |  |
The FAREWEL.
I
Leave, wretched Hawkshaw, leaveThy self with airy Fantoms to deceive;
There's no such thing as Love,
Except it be amongst the Gods above;
'Tis an Empty Noise of Air,
Whose Eccho brings back nothing but Despair.
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II
'Tis a Lottery of Care,Wherein ten thousand Blanks, few Prizes are:
And yet so mad are we,
We hazard all at this poor Vanity;
And commonly it happens so,
We're cheated of our Time and Mony too.
III
Let's at another's Cost be wise;Poor Cowley ran, and yet ne're won the Prize,
And yet his Feet were made
By the best Artist of Apollo's Trade;
All his soft Words prov'd vain,
Instead of breaking, they confirm'd his Chain.
IV
A thousand Plots I've laid,But ne're could get the Virgin's Heart betray'd;
Who ever yet could say,
He'd brought his Love in Captive-chains away?
So dismal now I prove,
I am become a Skelleton in Love.
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V
Leave, Hawkshaw, leave once more,Court not the Wasp that sting'd thy Heart before;
Use neither Spell nor Art,
To bring the Tyrant back into thy Heart;
Shake off the Chains of Love,
No God in Heav'n does thy Fate approve.
VI
Let not thy Army fall in vainBefore a Place which you will never gain;
The Bombs which you shot in
Will ne're consume her well stor'd Magazin;
Tho' Cannon be brought down,
Yet I am sure you ner'e will take the Town.
| Poems Upon Several Occasions | |