Lines in Imitation of Cowley

Touch'd by thy wit, my soul's on fire, My bosom throbs with young desire. What! though thy form I never saw, Is there to man divulg'd a law That only what he sees must touch his heart?

The vulgar rule I disallow, And in my passion feel e'en now, That wit, like beauty, gives the tender smart.

Methinks thy form I would not know, Nor to thy face the pleasure owe Of these delicious melting pains, Which when a mortal once attains, He knows the greatest bliss for man design'd.

No, to my fancy I'll apply, There find thy form, thy air, thy eye, And feast my frenzy with a zest refin'd.

When in a pensive mood I sit, And Melancholy takes her fit, Mild, tender, soft, thou shalt appear, Like the first blossoms of the year: But when in brisker tides my spirits run,

L'Allegro shall the pencil take, Describe thy look, thy step, thy make, And shew thee lively as bright MAIA's son.