To Monsieur Frankville.
Of all the Woes which wait on humane Life, sure there is none Equal to that a Lover feels in Absence; ’tis a kind of Hell, an earnest of those Pains, we are told, shall be the Portion of the Damn’d----Ten whole Nights, and Days, according to the vulgar Reckoning, but in mine, as many Ages, have roll’d their tedious Hours away since last I saw you, in all which time, my Eyes have never known one Moments cessation from my Tears, nor my sad Heart from Anguish; restless I wander thro’ this hated House---Kiss the clos’d Wicket---stop, and look at every Place which I remember your dear steps have blest, then, with wild Ravings, think of past Joys, and curse my present Woes---yet you perhaps are Calm, no sympathizing Pang invades your Soul, and tells you what mine suffers, else, you wou’d, you must have found some Means to ease your self and me--’tis true, I bid you not attempt it--but Oh! If you had lov’d like me, you cou’d not have obey’d----Desire has no regard to Prudence, it despises Danger, and over-looks even Impossibilities---but whither am I going?---I say, I know not what---Oh, mark not what Distraction utters! Shun these detested Walls!---’tis Reason now commands! fly from this House, where injur’d Love’s enslav’d, and Death and Treachery reign---I charge thee come not near, nor prove thy Faith so hazardous a way---forgive the little Fears, which ever dwell with Love---I know thou art all sincerity!---all God-like Truth, and can’st not change---yet, if thou shouldst,---tormenting Thought!----Why then, there’s not a Heaven-abandon’d Wretch, so lost---so Curst as I---What shall I do to shake off Apprehension? in spite of all thy Vows---thy ardent Vows, when I but think of any Maid, by Love, and fond Belief undone, a deadly cold runs thro’ my Veins, congeals my Blood, and chills my very Soul!---Gazing on the Moon last Night, her Lustre brought fresh to my Memory those transporting Moments, when by that Light I saw you first a Lover, and, I think Inspired me, who am not usually fond of Versifying, to make her this Complaint.
The Unfortunate Camilla’s Complaint to the Moon, for the Absence of her Dear Henricus Frankville.
Mild Queen of Shades! Thou sweetly shining Light!
Once, more than Phœbus, welcome to my Sight:
’Twas by thy Beams I first Henricus saw