ABSTRACT
To inquire of him if he could tell me by the style, who writ me a copy of verses that came to me in an unknown hand Oh, Damon, if thou ever wert That certain friend thou hast professed, Relieve the rantings of my heart, Restore me to my wonted rest. Late in the Silvian grove I sat, Free as the air, and calm as that; For as no winds the boughs oppressed, No storms of love were in my breast. A long adieu I'd bid to that Ere since Amintas proved ingrate. 10 And with indifference, or disdain, I looked around upon the plain And worth my favour found no sighing swain. But oh, my Damon, all in vain I triumphed in security, In vain absented from the plain. The wanton God his power to try In lone recesses makes us yield, 67As well as in the open field; For where no human thing was found 20 My heedless heart received a wound. Assist me, shepherd, or I die, Help to unfold this mystery. No swain was by, no flattering nymph was near, Soft tales of love to whisper in my ear. In sleep, no dream my fancy fired With images, my waking wish desired. No fond idea filled my mind; Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclined; I sighed for no deceiving youth, 30 Who forfeited his vows and truth; I waited no assigning swain Whose disappointment gave me pain. My fancy did no prospect take Of conquests I designed to make. No snares for lovers I had laid, Nor was of any snare afraid. https://s3-euw1-ap-pe-df-pch-content-public-p.s3.eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/9781003061823/4978c409-9f3f-4ebf-a106-91333e4f25f5/content/fig29_40.tif"/> Thus in the midst of careless thought, A paper to my hand was brought. What hidden charms were lodged within, To my unwary eyes unseen, Alas! no human thought can guess; But ho! it robbed me of my peace. A philter 'twas, that darted pain 50 Through every pleased and trembling vein. A stratagem, to send a dart By a new way into the heart, Th' ignoble policy of love 68By a clandestine means to move. https://s3-euw1-ap-pe-df-pch-content-public-p.s3.eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/9781003061823/4978c409-9f3f-4ebf-a106-91333e4f25f5/content/fig29_41.tif"/> While Love did the occasion take And hid beneath his flowers a snake, 60 O'er every line did poison fling, In every word he lurked a sting. So matrons are, by demons charms, Though harmless, capable of harms. The verse was smooth, the thought was fine, The fancy new, the wit divine. But filled with praises of my face and eyes, My verse, and all those usual flatteries To me as common as the air; Nor could my vanity procure my care. 70 All which as things of course are writ And less to show esteem than wit. But here was some strange something more Than ever flattered me before; My heart was by my eyes misled: I blushed and trembled as I read. And every guilty look confessed I was with new surprise oppressed. From every view I felt a pain And by the soul, I drew the swain. 80 Charming as fancy could create Fine as his poem, and as soft as that. I drew him all the heart could move, I drew him all that women love. And such a dear idea made As has my whole repose betrayed. Pygmalion thus his image formed, And for the charms he made, he sighed and burned.
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The spiteful paper bear no name, Nor can I guess from whom it came, Or if at least a guess I found, Twas not t'instruct but to confound.