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Whene'er he speaks, my ravish'd ear
If the fome other swain commend,
When she is abfent, I no more
When fond of power, of beauty vain,
H! why must words my flame reveal ?
Why needs my Damon bid me tell,
Betrays my secret love.
In all their sports upon the plain
still fix'd on him remain,
Whene'er we meet, my looks confess
And every care remove;
Does any speak in Damon's praise,
word approve ;
Alas! because I love,
But ah! what tortures tear my heart,
The least desire to rove!
For ah! that hate is love.
Then ask not words, but read mine eyes,
My paffion these will prove;
To Damon, must be love,
OME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be
And if thy breast have felt fo wide a wound,
Come hither and thy flame approve;
I'll teach thee what it is to love,
It is to be all bath'd in tears,
To live upon a smile for years,
To kneel, to languish and implore,
And still tho' fhe disdain, adore ; It is to do all this and think thy sufferings sweet.
It is to gaze upon her
eyes With eager joy and fond surprize, Yet temper’d with such chaste and awful fear
As wretches feel who wait their doom ;
Nor must one ruder thought presume Tho' but in whispers breath’d, to meet her ear.
It is to hope, tho' hope were lost,
Tho' heaven and earth thy passion croft ; Tho' the were bright as fainted queens above,
And thou the least and meaneit swain
That folds his flock upon the plain,
It is to quench thy joy in tears,
To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears ; If pangs of jealousy thou haft not prov'd,
Tho' she were fonder and more true
Than any nymph old poets drew,
If when the darling maid is gone,
Thou dost not seek to be alone,
And mufe, and fold thy languid arms,
Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
If any hopes thy bosom fare
But those which love has planted there,
Now if thou art so lost a thing,
Here all thy tender forrows bring,