Songs, Song

If truth can fix thy wav'ring heart, Let Damon urge his claim; He feels the passion void of art, The pure, the constant flame.

Though sighing swains their torments tell, Their sensual love contemn: They only prize the beauteous shell, But slight the inward gem.

Possession cures the wounded heart, Destroys the transient fire; But when the mind receives the dart, Enjoyment whets desire.

By age your beauty will decay, Your mind improves with years; As when the blossoms fade away, The rip'ning fruit appears:

May Heav'n and Sylvia grant my suit, And bless the future hour, That Damon, who can taste the fruit, May gather ev'ry flow'r!