by John Cunningham

John Cunningham

No longer, Daphne, I admire
The graces in thine eyes;
Continued coyness kills desire,
And famish'd passion dies.
Three tedious years I've sigh'd in vain,
Nor could my vows prevail;
With all the rigours of disdain
You scorn'd my amorous tale.

When Celia cry'd, how senseless she,
That has such vows refus'd;
Had Damon giv'n his heart to me,
It had been kinder us'd.
The man's a fool that pines and dies,
Because a woman's coy;
The gentle bliss that one denies,
A thousand will enjoy.

Such charming words, so void of art,
Surprising rapture gave;
And though the maid subdu'd my heart,
It ceas'd to be a slave:
A wretch condemn'd, shall Daphne prove:
While blest without restraint,
In the sweet calendar of love
My Celia stands — a saint.

Last updated January 14, 2019