Song X. Platonic Love

In vain my Love, you bid me strive, To keep—a fa—mish'd Flame—a—live, Un fed—the strong—est Flame wont burn And Love grows cold—with-out—re—turn

The Prude perverse, or wither'd Maid, Whose every Bud of Hopes decay'd, May slatter her Despair to prove, Th' Illusions of Platonic Love.

Hear not their Lore! tis all a Cheat! But haste! that Wisdom comes not late. When barren Winter strips the Plain, We look for Summer's Fruits in vain.

In prudence then you must afford. Something beyound a Look, or Word, Else on it self, my Love will prey, And die insensibly away.