To The Sighing Strephon
Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend; Your pardon, a thousand times o’er: From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, But, I swear, I will do so no more. Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, No more I your folly regret She’s now most divine, and I bow at the shrine Of this quickly reformed coquette. Yet still, I must own, I should never have known From your verses what else she deserved; Your pain seem’d so great, I pitied your fate, As your fair was so devilish reserved. Since the baim-br’eathing kiss of this magical miss Can such wonderful transports produce; Since the ‘world you forget, when your lips once have met,’ My counsel will get but abuse. You Say, ‘When I rove, I know nothing of love;’ ‘Tis true, ‘I am given to range; If I rightly remember, I’ve loved a good number, Yet there’s pleasure, at least, in a change I will not advance, by the rules of romance, To humour a whimsical fair; Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won’t affright, Or drlve me to dreadful despair. While my blood is thus warm I ne’er shall reform, To mix in the Platonists’ school; Of this l am sure, was my passion so pure, Thy mistress would think me a fool. And if I should shun every woman for one, Whose image must fill my whole breast– Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her– What an insult ‘twould be to the rest! ow, Strephon, good bye, I cannot deny Your passion appears most absurd; Such love as you plead is pure love indeed, For it only consists in the word.