To The Sighing Strephon.[1]

1.     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. 2.     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 reformd coquette. 3.     Yet still, I must own,     I should never have known,     From your verses, what else she deserv'd;     Your pain seem'd so great,     I pitied your fate,     As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd. 4.     Since the balm-breathing 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. 5.     You say, "When I rove,"     "I know nothing of love;"     Tis true, I am given to range;     If I rightly remember,     I've lov'd a good number;     Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 6.     I will not advance,     By the rules of romance,     To humour a whimsical fair;     Though a smile may delight,     Yet a frown will affright,     Or drive me to dreadful despair. 7.     While my blood is thus warm,     I ne'er shall reform,     To mix in the Platonists' school;     Of this I am sure,     Was my Passion so pure,     Thy Mistress would think me a fool. 8.     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! 9.     Now 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.