KISS VIII.
Ah! what ungoverned rage, declare,
Neæra, too capricious fair,
What unrevenged, unguarded wrong,
Could urge thee thus to wound my tongue?
Perhaps you deem the afflictive pains
Too trifling, which my heart sustains,
Nor think enough my bosom smarts
With all the sure, destructive darts
Incessant sped from every charm,
That thus your wanton teeth must harm,
Must harm that little tuneful thing,
Which wont so oft thy praise to sing,
What time the morn has streaked the skies,
Or evening’s faded radiance dies,
Through painful days consuming slow,
Through lingering nights of amorous woe.
This tongue, thou know’st, has oft extolled
Thy hair in shining ringlets rolled;
Thine eyes with tender passion bright;
Thy swelling breast of purest white;
Thy taper neck of polished grace;
And all the beauties of thy face;
Beyond the lucid orbs above,
Beyond the starry throne of Jove;
Extolled them in such lofty lays
That gods with envy heard the praise.
Oft has it called thee every name
Which boundless rapture taught to frame;
My life! my joy! my soul’s desire!
All that my wish could e’er require!
My pretty Venus! and my love!
My gentle turtle! and my dove!
Till Cypria’s self with envy heard
Each partial, each endearing word.
Say, beauteous tyrant! dost delight
To wound this tongue in wanton spite?
Because, alas! too well aware
That every wrong it yet could bear
Ne’er urged it once in angry strain
Of thy unkindness to complain;
But, suffering patient all its harms,
Still would it sing thy matchless charms,
Sing the soft lustre of thine eye,
Sing thy sweet lips of rosy dye,
Nay, still those guilty teeth ’twould sing,
Whence all its cruel mischiefs spring:
E’en now it lisps in faltering lays,
While yet it bleeds, Neæra’s praise:
Thus, beauteous tyrant! you control,
Thus sway my fond, enamored soul!
