AN ANGELIC WOMAN.
Not an angel dwells above
Half so fair as her I love.
Heaven knows how she'll receive me:
If she smiles I'm blest indeed;
If she frowns I'm quickly freed;
Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me.
None can love her more than I,
Yet she ne'er shall make me die,
If my flame can never warm her:
Lasting beauty I'll adore,
I shall never love her more,
Cruelty will so deform her.
Sir John Vanbrugh.
I SMILE AT LOVE.
I smile at Love, and all its arts,
The charming Cynthia cried:
Take heed, for Love has piercing darts,
A wounded swain replied.
Once free and blest as you are now,
I trifled with his charms,
I pointed at his little bow,
And sported with his arms,
Till urged too far, Revenge! he cries,
A fatal shaft he drew,
It took its passage through your eyes,
And to my heart it flew.
To tear it thence I tried in vain;
To strive, I quickly found
Was only to increase the pain,
And to enlarge the wound.
Ah! much too well, I fear, you know
What pain I'm to endure,
Since what your eyes alone can do
Your heart alone can cure.
And that (grant Heaven, I may mistake!)
I doubt is doom'd to bear
A burden for another's sake,
Who ill rewards its care.