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COME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be,

That boasts to love as well as me;

And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound,

Come hither, and thy flame approve;
I'll teach thee what it is to love,

And by what marks true passion may be found.

It is to be all bathed in tears ;

To live upon a smile for years ;

To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet :

To kneel, to languish, and implore ;

And still, though she disdain, adore :It is to do all this, and think thy sufferings sweet. It is to gaze upon her eyes

With eager joy and fond surprise ;
Yet tempered with such chaste and awful fear

As wretches feel who wait their doom ;

Nor must one ruder thought presume,
Though but in whispers breathed, to meet her ear.

It is to hope, though hope were lost;

Though heaven and earth thy passion crossed ; Though she were bright as sainted queens above,

And thou the least and meanest swain

That folds his flock upon the plain,-
Yet if thou darest not hope, thou dost not love.

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It is to quench thy joy in tears ;

To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears : If pangs of jealousy thou hast not proved,

Though she were fonder and more true

Than any nymph old poets drew,

O never dream again that thou hast loved !

If when the darling maid is gone,

Thou dost not seek to be alone,

Wrapt in a pleasing trance of tender woe,

And muse, and fold thy languid arms,

Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
Thou dost not love,- for love is nourished so.

If any hopes thy bosom share

But those which Love has planted there, Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall,

Thou never yet his power hast known;

Love sits on a despotic throne,
And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.

Now if thou art so lost a thing,

Here all thy tender sorrows bring, And

prove whose patience longest can endure: We'll strive whose fancy shall be lost

In dreams of fondest passion most; For if thou thus hast loved, O never hope a cure !


If ever thou didst joy to bind
Two hearts in equal passion joined,

O son of Venus! hear me now,

And bid Florella bless my vow.

If any bliss reserved for me

Thou in the leaves of fate shouldst see ;

If any white propitious hour, Pregnant with hoarded joys in store ;

Now, now the mighty treasure give,

In her for whom alone I live;

In sterling love pay all the sum,


And I'll absolve the fates to come.

In all the pride of full-blown charms

Yield her, relenting, to my arms:

Her bosom touch with soft desires,

And let her feel what she inspires.

But, Cupid, if thine aid be vain

The dear reluctant maid to gain;

If still with cold averted eyes

She dash my hopes, and scorn my sighs;

O grant !—'tis all I ask of thee,

That I no more may change than she;
But still with duteous zeal love on,

When every gleam of hope is gone.

Leave me then alone to languish;
Think not time can heal my anguish;
Pity the woes which I endure,
But never, never grant a cure.

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