[Upon his leaving his
MISTRESS.]
I.
’Tis not that I am weary grown
Of being yours, and yours alone:
But with what Face can I incline,
To damn you to be only mine?
You, whom some kinder Pow’r did fashion,
By Merit, and by Inclination,
The Joy at least of a whole Nation.
⎫
⎬
⎭
II.
Let meaner Spirits of your Sex,
With humble Aims their Thoughts perplex:
And boast, if, by their Arts they can
Contrive to make one happy Man.
While, mov’d by an impartial Sense,
Favours, like Nature you dispense,
With universal Influence.