by William Somervile
Dead to the soft delights of love,
Spare me, O! spare me, cruel boy!
Nor seek in vain that heart to move
Which pants no more with amorous joy.
Of old, thy faithful hardy swain,
(When smit with fair Pastora's charms)
I serv'd thee many a long campaign,
And wide I spread thy conquering arms.
Now, mighty God! dismiss thy slave,
To feeble age let youth succeed;
Recruit among the strong and brave.
And kindly spare an invalid.
Adieu, fond hopes, fantastic cares,
Ye killing joys, ye pleasing pains!
My soul for better guests prepares;
Reason restor'd, and virtue reigns.
But why, my Cloe! tell me why,
Why trickles down this silent tear?
Why do these blushes rise and die?
Why stand I mute when thou art here?
Ev'n sleep affords my soul no rest,
Thee bathing in the stream I view;
With thee I dance, with thee I feast,
Thee through the gloomy grove pursue.
Triumphant god of gay desires!
Thy vassal's raging pains remove;
I burn, I burn, with fiercer fires,
Oh! take my life, or crown my love.
Last updated October 28, 2017