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 reformèd coquette.
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.
Since the balm-breathing kissOf 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 lov'd 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 will affright,Or drive me to dreadful despair.
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.
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!
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.
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