I'm no slave to such as you be!
Neither shall a snowy breast,
Wanton eye, or lip of ruby
Ever rob me of my rest!
Go! go! Display
Your beauty's ray
To some o'ersoon enamoured Swain!
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vain!
I have elsewhere, vowed a duty;
Turn away thy tempting eyes!
Show me not a naked beauty!
Those impostures I despise!
My spirit loaths
Where gaudy clothes
And feigned oaths may love obtain!
I love Her so,
Whose look swears "No!"
That all your labours will be vain!
Can he prize the tainted posies
Which on every breast are worn;
That may pluck the spotless roses
From their never-touchèd thorn?
I can go rest
On her sweet breast,
That is the pride of Cynthia's train.
Then hold your tongues!
Your Mermaid songs
Are all bestowed on me in vain!
He's a fool, that basely dallies,
Where each peasant mates with him!
Shall I haunt the throngèd valleys,
Whilst there's noble hills to climb?
No, no! Though clowns
Are scared with frowns;
I know the best can but disdain:
And those I'll prove!
So shall your love
Be all bestowed on me in vain!
Yet I would not deign embraces
With the greatest fairest She;
If another shared those graces
Which had been bestowed on me!
I gave that One
My love, where none
Shall come to rob me of my gain.
Your fickle hearts
Make tears and Arts!
And all bestowed on me in vain.
I do scorn, to vow a duty,
Where each lustful lad may woo:
Give me Her, whose sun-like beauty,
Buzzards dare not soar unto!
She! She it is
Affords that bliss!
For which, I would refuse no pain.
But such as you!
Fond fools! adieu!
You seek to capture me in vain!
Proud she seemed, in the beginning,
And disdained my looking on;
But that "Coy One in the winning,
Proves a True One, being won!"
Whate'er betide
She'll ne'er divide
The favour She to me shall deign;
But your fond love
Will fickle prove!
And all that trust in you, are vain!
Therefore know! When I enjoy One,
And for love employ my breath;
She I court, shall be a Coy One,
Though I win her with my death!
A favour there,
Few aim at, dare.
And if, perhaps, some lover plain;
She is not won
Nor I undone
By placing of my love in vain.
Leave me! then, you Syrens! leave me!
Seek no more to work my harms!
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me;
Who am proof against your charms!
You labour may
To lead astray
The heart, that constant shall remain:
And I, the while,
Will sit and smile,
To see you spend your time in vain.