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Love Stifl'd.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


73

Love Stifl'd.

I

These seven long Years with all my Skill,
I've strove to hide my growing ill;
The Magick Cures of Love I've often try'd,
And healing Plaisters to my Wounds apply'd;
For should these Flames break out, they may
All my Designs to her betray.

II

Should I inform her that I love,
Perhaps it might my Ruine prove;
'Tis better like Æneas first to shroud,
Love's glorious Visage in a Cloud;
And then with open Arms to run,
As Phaeton embrac'd the Sun.

III

But when the Gods for me shall call,
Without request I'll tell her all;

74

As some mistaken Zealots when they die,
Reveal to Priests all their Impiety:
But if she dart one pleasant Beam,
I shall be vigorous again.