Song, 1744

Perhaps it is not love, said I, That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh; Where wit and sense like her's agree, One may be pleas'd, and yet be free.

The beauties of her polish'd mind It needs no lover's eye to find; The hermit freezing in his cell Might wish the gentle Flavia well.

It is not love—averse to bear The servile chain that lovers wear; Let, let me all my fears remove, My doubts dispel—it is not love—

Oh! when did wit so brightly shine In any form less fair than thine? It is—it is love's subtle fire, And under friendship lurks desire.