III. to Sylvia

Why seek you to know what your fond Damon feels, Yet meet with derision what Passion reveals? Thy bosom proud Sylvia distress ne'er could move, Nor ever could feel the soft raptures of Love.

When Damon would urge you with sighs, and with tears, To pity his suff'rings, you laugh at his fears; Thus cold, and thus cruel, those joys you'll ne'er find Which virtue yields virtue in sympathy join'd.

So some curious Image whose figure at most, And beautiful outside is all it can boast, By the Artist's kind hand all its beauties are drest, And tho' mimicking Life is a Stone at the best.

Then hear me, proud Sylvia, nor boast your bright charms, Which ev'ry fond bosom so pow'rfully warms, While thus like an image of life, but a show, You're sway'd by no Passion, no Pleasure you'll know.

Accept the advice which I friendly would give, Drive hence Affectation e'er wrinkles arrive; Or like some maim'd statue, disdainful thrown by, With rubbish and lumber unheeded you'll lie.