To Laura

Go, faithful Muse! to LAURA fly, And with thee bear this tender sigh; Tell her 'tis honest—free from art, And acts in concert with my heart:

If soft she looks, nor frowns the while, 'Twill take the semblance of a smile; But if unkind she scorns it—swear Twill melt that moment to a tear:—

Fly, Muse, and let the Fair one know, 'Tis her's to fix my weal or woe; Array'd in Beauty's lovliest bloom, She stamps my bliss, or seals my doom.

Bid her recal that happy hour, When to the box the wand she bore; And having play'd her public part, Came privately to steal my heart.

Go, Muse, and ask the charming Maid, If pond'ring since on what I said, She ever wish'd nor would disdain, To pass the halcyon hour again?

While all were on the scene intent, My thoughts alone on her were bent, Her smiles to kingdoms I'd prefer, And I could only gaze on her.

Haste, haste, my Muse, once more intrude And ask if LAURA thought me rude? Ask, if that sweet engaging brow To every Swain is always so?

Ask, if those looks were only meant, As cold respect and compliment? Ask, if her heart was wholly free, Or felt one partial glow for me?

Perhaps that youthful bosom yet, Hath no endearing object met; Ah me! what transports he must prove, Who raptur'd wins her Virgin Love!

For me, unskill'd, unus'd to plead, My humble Verse may ill succeed; Yet LAURA, to that Verse attend, And in the Lover mark the Friend.

While life's transcendant morn is yours, While Beauty blooms, and Youth endures; A thousand Swains will hourly kneel, And what they fancy, swear they feel.

Lascivious age will round thee press, And shock thy early tenderness; Will dare to bribe the free-born Mind, And give you gold to have you kind.

Ah, LAURA! shun the treach'rous foe, Who'd sink thy feeling heart so low; Such wretches scorn, and him approve, Who only offers Love for Love.