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 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 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_.