LYSANDER to CLOE

'Tis true, my wish will never find Another nymph so fair, so true; Since all that's bright, and all that's kind, In those expressive eyes I view.

And I with grateful zeal could haste, To China for the merest toy; Could scorch on Lybia's barren waste, To give my dear a moment's joy.

But fickle as the wave or wind, I once may slight those lovely arms; Pardon a free ingenuous mind, I do not half deserve thy charms.

If I in any praise excel, 'Tis in soft scenes to paint my flame; But Cloe's sweetness bids me tell, I shall not long remain the same.

I know its season will expire, Replac'd by cool esteem alone; Nor more thy matchless breast admire Than I detest and scorn my own.

This interval my fate allows, And friendship dictates all I say; O shun to hear my future vows, When giddy love resumes the lay.

So some poor maniac can foresee The random hours of madness nigh; He mourns the fates' severe decree, And cautions whom he loves to fly.