THE CONFESSION.
Olivia, though Strephon I praise,
His wit and good humour approve;
Though the beauty, I own, of his lays,
Yet still I may not be in love.
His merit was always allow’d,
By ev’ry gay nymph on the plain,
And I sure must be stupid or proud,
Not to join in the praise of the swain.
But when each dear look I admire,
When with raptures I list to his song,
When my heart it beats time to his lyre,
And the minutes without him seem long;
Then I fear, that not friendship alone,
My heart could so tenderly move;
Yet, I’m still at a loss, I must own—
For it cannot—it must not be love.
To her friend thus the shepherdess said,
Who suspected a little deceit,
With smiles she reply’d to the maid,
(Resolv’d to discover the cheat,)
“Suppose he was equally charm’d,
“Say, could you the shepherd approve?”
The nymph of her caution disarm’d,
With blushes confest—she could love.
New-York, August 13, 1796.